Eggplant Teapot

Girl Remembered: Finding the Real Me

2011-03-17T11:26:00.001-04:00

It has become necessary for me to clean out my closet--both literally and figuratively. There is baggage and extra stuff everywhere and it all must be cleaned up. While I could go on and on about my mental closet, today I choose to talk about the one in my bedroom.

I tend to be something of a pack rat. My feeling is that if something is worth spending money on, it's also worth saving. So, I save and I save and I save until eventually, there is no more room. My closet is no stranger to this madness. It is overrun with decades of clothes that hang on all three walls and then spill on to the floor and shelves. Some of these things I just don't have the heart to throw away even though it was only marginally stylish in the 90's to begin with and I probably will never wear again.

Well, I am happy to say that I am finally purging the ankle length pencil skirts and the smock dresses that should have belonged to an Amish woman and not a twenty somethingish young lady. I'm getting rid of the horrible striped shirt that I got on sale and I'm throwing away a ton of pant suits with jackets that are as long as the pants. It's time to ditch the horrible fashion.

I would be remiss if I said that nothing in my closet is worth saving because there are a few things. There are also some good memories and right now, I'm searching for something good to remember.  I found the dress--albeit a terrible lime green and navy blue color blocked disaster--that I wore to college graduation. I also found a black and white dress that my sister (and I stole) many moons ago that is attached to so many good times.

I think my favorite find was a little cotton purple tunic that was hidden in between two pairs of peg legged pants. As soon as I found it, I smiled from ear to ear. First of all, it's a size XS and just the fact that at one time in my life I was that tiny is enough to make me estatic.  But there's a bigger significance to this dress. It is connected to a simple night in my life that I look back at now with great fondness.

In 1991, I had my first true West Virginia summer. The summer before we moved from Michigan and I was in such a shocked daze trying to figure out my new life. This summer, however, I had begun to not only figure out my life, but in the process, I began to figure out me.

It was a great time of exploration. I had found my voice in my writing. I began to understand where I stood politically and morally. I had my own choice and tastes. Everything was new. New State. New house. New friends. New thoughts. New Life. And possible new boyfirend?

In the middle of this rebirth of sorts, I started talking to this guy whom we will call Gavin. I've never actually dated a Gavin but it's a sexy name and I since I live in the smallest of small towns, I don't want to give they guy's real name. Anyway, Gavin got my number from my first West Virginia boyfriend (who is not important enough to this story to get a name) and he decided to call. He and I just hit it off. We talked until my mom kicked me off the phone and agreed to meet at the park on the weekend just to "hang out".

With this in mind, I picked out that purple tunic and a pair of flowery leggings to match. My mom helped me twist my long hair down the sides of my head and I wore my favorite mango perfume. I don't remember if I was wearing a cross necklace but chances are I was. I was ready to meet Gavin in the park.

The girl that showed up there was whole and innocent. She didn't have any emotional scars brought on by love lost. She was happy, smiley and all natural. I think perhaps that Gavin was much like me. We were young. Life was good.

Happy is a good word to describe the whole day. He and I didn't have more than a few dollars between us so it wasn't like we were meeting for dinner or anything. Instead, I bought a grape Diet Rite, he got himself something to drink, and we sat on the grass listening to a band playing in the park. I can remember that the sun was shining and I was laughing.

Of course we weren't the only people in the park. First West Virginia boyfriend was there too. The part of the day that I remember the most is watching him getting ready to walk in front of us and Gavin saying, "Can you please pretend you're having a good time?"

My hand reached over and touched his. "I don't need to pretend," I said, my kiwi lip balm shining.

And I didn't because I was happy. I was happy in my skin. I was happy in that moment with Gavin and I was happy in that purple dress.    Now that I'm searching for my happiness again, I'm very much holding on to this moment--not because of Gavin or because I looked cute in that dress. I'm holding on to it because every happy moment counts.

I've spent a few nights awak recently trying to figure out how to get back to that girl--the smiling, shiny little light that she was. She didn't care what people thought. She followed her heart.

For the better part of the last decade, this hasn't been the case. I haven't been anything but bogged down or held in place. It's time to find my new purple dress. It's time that I found the new--or maybe the real--me.

The search is on. But it probably won't happen in my purple dress unless I plan on wrapping it around a thigh because that's the only place that it will fit.

I'm BAAAAAACK!

2011-02-24T12:50:00.000-05:00

I took a year offf from writing. Actually, if you want to get right down to it, I took a year off from life. Call it a breakdown, a tear down, or a rebirth, it is what it is but what it wasn't was easy. For one year, I questioned everything about who I am, what kind of mother and partner I am, and where I was headed. It was like my whole life was torn apart in one fell swoop of someone else's creation. (I'm not going to say what happened because I have been accused of being too upfront with other people's involvement in my life. I will just say it was something I never expected or wanted and something that I tried to avoid.)

In this past year, I found out that I am not super woman. It took time to put the pieces back together and parts of me are altered forever. I learned that people will speak and others will listen regardless if what is being said is the truth or a rumor. That's why it's important to know what the REAL truth is and to trust that the closest of friends will accept this and know this no matter what. Speaking of real friends, it becomes very evident who they are when in a time of crisis. I have a new friendship that was born out of this event and my new friend is one of the closest that I've ever had. Two of my oldest and dearest friends also supported me in their own way. I love them for that and they know exactly who they are.

My family has been a blessing in the past year. I expected some of them to have a problem with my personal crisis but none did. Rather than run away, they scooped me up and have been the perfect support system ever since. It's been so valuable to me especially since I hadn't had any good contact with them for a time.

So now here I am, a year or so later, on the other side of a life changing event. And yes, I am changed. I am a lot more guarded with all parts of me and I realize now that I am not the easiest person to deal with. I have a lot of self doubt and a scar on my heart that stings all. the. time.

But I have other things too. My love for my son has tripled tenfold. My patience and enjoyment of his craziness has done the same too. I've learned to love me--all of me--even the bad parts and I've learned that I don't need to have people in my life that don't feel that way about me.

I am in love with my life and I'm the happiest that I've been in the past five years or so. No one can take that away from me. No event can destroy my true spirit. I know that now. It feels as if I've been tested by fire and I'm beginning to come out the other side.

Am I perfect? No. Not even close. I'm not all the way better either but I'm trying and every day it's a bit easier.

I gave up a lot of things to try to save what I had. One of those things was writing--especially in this blog. I gave it up because I lost my words and the ones that I could access were hurtful. Instead of living in that, I just stopped. But what I didn't realize that stopping was giving up a part of me.

So I'm back. I'm here and full of ideas. I'm changed but I'm here.

Mythical City

2009-10-28T10:47:00.000-04:00

My gram talked of a city with large sweeping buildings, bustling with people. She spoke of buying a Vernors at the Coney Shop by the river and shopping at the Hudson's store. There was always a twinkle in her eye when she described this city alive with culture and arts--this Mecca of the car industry that drew in workers from all over the United Sates. This Shangri la, if you will, is the Detroit of my Gram's time.

To me, this place is nothing more than a myth--a legend that faded long ago. Yes, my momma and poppa also talk of a better time for the city. My poppa grew up in the heart of Detroit and championship football for the school that was directly across the street from his house. The way he describes the block on which her grew up conjures up mental images of a little bedroom community with neighbors who shared sugar and watched out for each other. As beautiful as this is, my own experiences and thoughts are shockingly different.

Having been raised twenty or so odd miles from Detroit in a "small" lake community, I always had this fear that radiated through me when we would drive through the city. I think it would start when we would hit that magic place of Gratiot or Jefferson Avenue where my mom would say, "lock the doors," and Elizabeth and I would dutifully do as we were told. From that point, the view out of our windows would change from sprawling homes and busy community stores to business with bars on the windows and menacing looking characters who prowled the streets. My mind was always connected to the whole Devil's Night phenomenon and how people would set fire to buildings on October 30. In my little mind, that sounded so savage. Come to think of it, I guess this still is savage behavior.

How can this, then, also be the city where I felt such a connection to the people as I sat directly across from the Spirit of Detroit for at least eight hours waiting for an appearance by Pope John Paul II? At no moment did I feel afraid to be in the open, sitting on a blanket with my parents and sister. In fact, still to this day more than twenty years later, I can almost smell the street food and hear the excitement of the people. This was a wonderful day, and not the only one, that I had with my family in Detroit.

Now, I hear that the city--and the surrounding suburbs for that matter--have changed even more. All of Michigan is hurting and Detroit is feeling the brunt of this. It's becoming a relative ghost town filled with forclosure after forclosure. This saddens me greatly because I have been silently rooting for Michigan--and Detroit for years. My poppa says that Michigan is a good place to be from but not a good place to be at the moment and I have to agree with him.

Still, my heart is with Detroit and with all of Michigan for that matter. It's a beautiful state and one that holds fond memories for me. I'm hoping--no praying--that they can pull it together. Perhaps, one day, my Gram's Detroit will exist again. Nothing is impossible.

Mouse Dreams

2009-09-13T17:44:00.004-04:00

For as long as I can remember, I have been infatuated by Disney World. I think it started when we went on a family trip while I was five years old. My sister wasn't much older than two and she had what would be her first asthma attack. As my parents and sister speeded away to the hospital, I was taken to a one of the Disney day care centers. To this day, I remember what I was wearing (a Strawberry Shortcake shirt), I remember that it was fun, and I remember that I never wanted to leave. Ever since then, my feelings on Walt Disney World have always been the same--I never want to leave.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am very much a Diznoid. More than that, I am a Disney World fiend. If I could, I'd eat, sleep and dream Disney World. That's not something that's easily achieved in West Virginia, but I try my best. I get little tastes of the magic from looking at people's pictures on Disney inspired boards. I also don't keep my crazy Disney Dreams a secret. Case in point: my biography on the school webpage says that when I retire, I want to sit in the window of Cinderella's castle with a cup of tea. Truly. That's my dream.

While I'm waiting for my castle moment (dream big, people), I get my taste of Mickey love by planning, planning planning. The amount of happiness inside of me grows tenfold when I plan a trip to Orlando. Almost as good as planning a trip for myself is planning a trip for other people. What can I say? I love the mouse.

All of this is why--for the third time in that many years--I have joined thousands of other Disney obsessed moms in an effort to be part of the Disney Mom's Panel. As a member of the panel, I'd get to help other people achieve their Disney dreams. Is it a job? Not really. I already have one of those. Instead, it would be sort of blogging Disney style. WHAT A DREAM FOR ME!!!

I'm up against at least twenty thousand other women and some men so I'm not holding my breath but boy that would be the best mouse dream ever.

The Reality

2009-08-21T22:46:00.003-04:00

When I was pregnant, I devoured every book on the subject of parenting and childhood that I could find. Like everything else in my life, I wanted to be the utmost authority on parenting before my child took one breath of air. When we found out that we would have a son, I doubled my reading efforts to include books that were about the rearing of boys. It only made sense to me that I should be as specific as possible to get the best results in this situation.

One of the first books that I chose to read was Bringing up Boys by Dr. Dobson. It seems like everything in the world revolves around girls so it was refreshing to find something that would tell me more about frogs and trucks than pink ribbons and Barbie dolls. I paid my twenty or so bucks for the book, brought it home, and curled up on the bed (we were temporarily living in my parent's basement at the time because we were building our house and that's all we had) anxious to be enlightened.

I think I was more stunned than elightened when I read a quote from Dr Dobson that stated something that basically said the sole job of a parent of a boy is to make sure that they make it to the age of eighteen alive. Well wow. I was completely stunned, which goes without saying since I know almost the exact wording of this statement more than five years after first reading it. I remember thinking, "Really? Could it really be that hard to raise a son?" Five years later, I feel a bit more comfortable with tackling this question. My answer?

HELL YES!

I think trying to bring up any child is a challenge in this day and age but sometimes I think that raising our son is akin to walking a landmine all the time. I don't know what it is, but boys seem to find the potholes in life and even if they know they are there, instead of walking around them, they find this strange need to bellyflop right into the muck, no thought of the consequences at all. It almost feels like boy brains are missing the parts that control common sense and fear. I'm not only speaking about my own son but about many of the boys that I've taught through the years.

So how bad could it be? Let's skip past eating Pledge and running in front of a bus at Disney World shall we? Let's also bypass finding the one electrical outlet that does not have a cover and trying to stick things inside of it. In fact, let's skip right to this summer, which didn't include a lot of harrowing moments, perse, but still there were a few close moments. Why? Because not only do I have a boy, but I also have a boy who seems to be able to find every bad situation and ingest every possible toxic germ in a ten mile radius.

Some examples?

A few days into July, Drew and I went for a walk down our driveway. When we got back to our house, we decided that we didn't want to go inside. It was far too nice for that. Instead, he headed over to the sandpile to play with some trucks and I went up on the deck to open the side door to the house. While I was up there, he asked to play on his swingset. What could be wrong with allowing him to use his swingset? Alot it seems. In a blink of an eye, Drew is flailing his arms and screaming bloody murder. He comes down the slide and runs down the hill. That's when I discover that he has been stung his times--mostly in the face.

After some crying and a bag of peas on the head, Drew was healed. The bee situation was over...until later that weekend when we were walking through the farmer's market and some stinging insect came out of nowhere and bit him under the eye. I swear, all of the stings from three days earlier suddenly puffed up and all of the lymph nodes in his neck bulged from under the skin. Of course, we took him to the ER and though we had an amazing nurse, we were told that we overreacted and that we needed to feed him more Benadryl. That's what we did and Drew got better...

...for maybe a day. Perhaps it was closer to three days because I know it was a Thursday when Mark took Drew to Mc Donald's and called me to ask me what was wrong with his finger. Well, nothing that I knew of, until they got home and I saw the red, pus-filled mess that was his pinky finger. I tried to convince Mark and myself that this was just a hang nail that would go away.

Fast forward to Saturday. The finger continued to become more and more red and pus-filled. I was still holding fast to the idea that this was no reason to make a second visit to the emergency room in less than a week. We were on our way to Walmart to pick up some groceries so we'd also pick up some salve to slather all over it and on Monday, if that didn't fix it, we'd go see his doctor.

Well, long story short, when we asked the pharmacist what to put on the finger, he said that we needed to go to Urgent Care. We did and the doctor wanted to squeeze out all of the puss which was probably caused by Drew sticking his fingers in his mouth and transferring bacteria. instead of torturing a four year old, he prescribed very heavy antibiotics and epsom salt soaks. Who knew that a finger could cause that much trouble?

The finger has healed and so have the bites but my paranoia has tripled. Just today, my son has done at least three things that scared the living daylights out of me. This, added to my constant worry that Drew's finger sucking will cause him to get The Swine Flu. If it caused a bacterial infection, H1N1 makes sense doesn't it?

All of this worrying has caused me ask this question: While I am working my hind end off to reach the goal of 18 alive and well, will I kill myself in the process? Probably not but there's a really good chance that I could get ulcers out of the deal.

For Your Consideration

2009-02-18T09:57:00.002-05:00

Yes, I know that I've been absent for awhile. Things have been busy. In fact, I'm not writing right now, but I'm asking you to read something. This is a little something I've been working on and I thought about opening a new blog type format to continue this story. Please read it. Tell me if it's interesting enough or if I should even bother. You can leave comments here or email to magz_23@yahoo.com

“BZZZZ” An alarm shrilled loudly, giving the warning that it was that ungodly hour once again. 5:45. Time to wake up and get another day started. Jeremy Weischzek let out a muffled huff; his mind trying to process that morning was already here, even though the sun was still hiding behind the horizon. Jeremy banged at the top of the clock, trying desperately to put a stop to the screeching noise. He made three attempts to hit the snooze button before he finally made contact, then turned over, and pulled the pillow over his head blocking out any pinpricks of light that might happen to be in the darkened room. If he were lucky, he would drift off to sleep for a few more minutes—nine to be exact—before the loud racket would start up once more.

Next to him his wife, Elise, sat up slowly, allowing the sleep to leave her body. She stretched her arms above her head, took in a deep breath of air, and rubbed her eyes. Elise pulled the covers away from her body and gently sunk her feet into the thick carpet, easing herself into the state of being awake. She tiptoed to the bathroom, careful to not reawaken her husband. Elise knew that those nine minutes were like gold to him and she didn’t want to take them away.

Unlike her husband, Elise was definitely a morning person. She loved to wake up nice and early so that she had a moment to herself to collect her thoughts. To her, it was refreshing to jump in the shower and let the warm water run down her body as she plotted out the activities of that day. At the moment, the only sound was the gentle plinking of the water against the shower wall and the sound of her own breathing. Soon enough, the noise of the day would overwhelm her.

Jeremy, on the other hand, hated the mornings. He didn’t have the gusto that Elise had about getting up and getting moving. Jeremy had to ease into the day. After his alarm clock went off for the second time, he would sit on the edge of the bed for several minutes, trying to will himself not to fall back into the puffy down comforter.

By the time Jeremy entered the bathroom, Elise was already showered and was in the process of drying off. He edged past his wife, who was standing in the middle of the path to the shower. He didn’t say a word to her or even acknowledge the fact that their skin had touched. Elise smiled to herself, knowing that it took Jeremy a good ten to fifteen minutes to really be awake. He wasn’t able to just stretch out and bound into the day like she was. She would give him his time.

It was only after the hot water unclouded his head that the exhaustion left him enough to be able to talk. The words began to form in his head and he shouted them over the Lucite door, fighting with the spraying water.

“Good morning.” The gruff voice pushed past the thick cloud of hot water steam.

“Good morning.” Elise grinned as she toweled off her hair. “I didn’t hear you come into bed. How late were you up last night?”

Jeremy peered over the shower door. “I think it was around one or two. I have that big presentation today. Japanese businessmen are coming in for a presentation.”

“I figured. You’ll do just fine you always do. Hey, don’t forget to pick up the tax forms. I want to get those done and sent out.”

A wet hand reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel off of the rack. Then, a body followed it. Jeremy dried himself off and then kissed Elise softly on the lips, wordlessly declaring good morning.

“Will do. You may want to leave me a message to remind me at some point. You know how I am about remembering things.”

Elise smiled and patted him on the still damp shoulder. Yes, she knew exactly how he was and she loved every part of him, even the forgetful side of him.

He chuckled. “Think you’ve figured me out, huh? I guess that’s what happens when you’re married to someone for eternity.”

“It doesn’t feel like eternity yet, honey. Just five really long years.” She grinned playfully at her husband.
With a mock expression of hurt feelings, Jeremy pulled his wife into a tight squeeze. “Oh, you know you’ve loved every minute of me.” He began to tuck his white shirt into his perfectly pressed back pants.

She laughed and playfully pushed him away. “No. I’ve loved every minute of us.”

With a roll of his eyes, Jeremy straightened his tie and watched his wife slip on her dress.
She was as beautiful as the day he had met her, only now more seasoned and mature. There were a few lines around her eyes when she smiled, and creases formed on the corners of her mouth when she let out one of her cute Elise laughs. Pushing thirty, Elise still looked young and supple. Jeremy knew that time would be good to Elise and hell, if it wasn’t; he also knew that he wouldn’t ever love her any less no matter how she looked.

Every day that they were together, Jeremy’s feelings for his wife grew tenfold. The things that Elise said and the way that she looked at him amazed him. It always seemed to remind Jeremy of lyrics from a song that came out in the 70’s. In fact, he had those lyrics put on a bracelet so that Elise never forgot his feeling for her—I love you more today than yesterday, but less than tomorrow. And it was so true. He loved her more and more every day.
In fact, in some ways, Jeremy credited Elise for saving his life. Jeremy often thought about his life before she became a part of it. He was 100% certain that things would have ended badly.
Jeremy was headed down a slippery slope. But that all ended when he met Elise and he was so thankful for her presence in his life.

“Having coffee?” Elise bellowed down the hallway as she headed to the kitchen.

This pulled Jeremy out of his thoughts. “Yeah. Just make sure you—“

“Put it in a travel mug so that you don’t spill it on your tie. I know. I know.”

Jeremy laughed and then looked himself over in the mirror one more time before joining Elise in the kitchen. He reached behind her and grabbed his already prepared mug.

“See you tonight?”

“Yep, as long as you remember the tax papers. If not, don’t come home.”

Jeremy pulled Elise closer. “Yeah. Yeah. I won’t forget. Wish me luck.” He kissed her gently on the lips.

“You don’t need it. I keep telling you. You could make anything sound interesting.”

“Well, I’ll take the luck anyway.” He grabbed one extra kiss from Elise and headed out the door.
After a short walk, Jeremy hopped on to the metro and it wasn’t long until it pulled into his stop. Jeremy exited the train car and walked with the rest of the people as they made their way up the stairs and back into the light of day. It was a four-block walk from there to the building that housed his company.

Jeremy didn’t mind the walk on a warm and sunny morning like this one. It was nice to be outside and it gave Jeremy a chance to watch all of the tourists who were walking around the nation’s capitol. They all seemed to be in awe of the large buildings that were found in the Mall.
Jeremy remembered that feeling too. Now they were just part of the landscape. They were part of his life.

Once he reached the towering glass building, Jeremy climbed the steps and then stopped at the security desk to show his identification. Jeremy waved at Ed, the lobby security guard who had worked there for many years.

“Hi, Ed. Nice weather today, huh?”

Ed tipped his hat to Jeremy. “That it is, Mr. Weischzek. It’s too bad that we’re all stuck inside.”

“Ah, but you get to look out of the door all day long. Not me. I’ll be stuck in a dark boardroom for most of the day. There are no windows there.”

Ed chuckled. “Ah, that’s right. The Japanese businessmen.”

Jeremy nodded. “Only artificial light for me today.”

Jeremy waved goodbye, walked past a large fountain and headed toward the elevators. The staccato sound of his shoes hitting the marble floor with each step echoed throughout the building. He followed other smartly dressed people inside of the box, pressed the number for his floor, and stared at the wall for the short trip up, secretly running through his presentation.
When the elevator opened to his floor, made a beeline straight for the boardroom. He didn’t have time to head to his office to stow his things. This made him extra thankful for the warm weather and the fact that he didn’t have a coat. He wanted every extra second that he could muster to make sure that this presentation was on point. The success of the company was riding on this moment.

Even though Jeremy knew exactly what he wanted to say, he was always nervous when he had to give a presentation of this magnitude. It was important for him to look and act like an associate for an up and coming company and represent nothing of his past life. Just to make sure that everything was under control, Jeremy flipped through his Power point presentation one more time, making sure nothing was left to chance. That was all he could do.
Moments later, Jeremy took a deep breath and straightened his tie. Even though he had given hundreds of these presentations over the past four years, he was still nervous each and every time. Jeremy walked quietly back to the front lobby lobby, running through the order of things in his head. Introduce the board of directors, discuss what they were about, show the presentation, take any questions. When he reached the subdued lobby, his potentially new clients were waiting for him.

Jeremy stopped at the corner, took another breath and then turned on his most magnetic smile and made his way confidently in the room. From the moment he entered, all eyes were on him, as they always were.

Jeremy held out his hands to welcome the visitors. “Good morning. I’m Jeremy Weischzek. Welcome to Western Industries.”

“I nailed it.” Jeremy raved to his wife as they lounged on the couch later that evening. “I was perfect.”

Elise laughed, trying not to choke on a piece of sashimi from the sushi platter that was sitting on the coffee table. Jeremy patted her on the back and when the coughing subsided, he kicked his feet up on her lap, crossing his hands behind his head.

“Really. I told them all about how our ideas could strengthen their products. I was on.”
Patting him on the head, Elise said, “Sounds like one of your better performances, Jer.”
Before Jeremy could comment, the phone rang. Her pointed his finger at his wife. “You’re lucky, you know. I had a brilliant come back.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did, save it for later.” Elise giggled as she crossed the room and entered the kitchen. She put the phone up to her ear and started back into the living room. “Hello?”

“Hello, Jeremy Weischzek, please.” The voice was a woman’s and the full rich sound was oddly familiar to Elise though she couldn’t remember exactly where she had heard it before.

Elise pointed to the phone, mouthing to Jeremy that it was a woman for him. “May I ask who’s calling?”

The question was answered by a shrill laugh. “Tell him that this is his past catching up with him.”

The Complexities of Four

2009-01-15T12:29:00.003-05:00

To the causal bystander, four always looks like a casual, carefree age. It's a time when children are supposed to play with toys, have adventures, and explore the world. Four is that magical time between Kindergarten and toddlerhood. There is no stopping the imagination at this age. The sky isn't even the limit; life is limitless for a four year old.

I have the pleasure of living with a wonderful four year old boy who is imaginative and curious. He yearns for an answer for all of the mysteries of the world and then uses them in his creative play. Just this weekend after a conversation about airplanes, he was standing at the train table (which has been turned into the car table) with one of my high heeled shoes and a whole handful of miniature action figure. I watched, bemused, as all of the figures had conversations about flying, and how no one should be afraid. Then, the shoe plane took off and flew around the house. When I asked him to fly into a different room, he told me that wasn't in the flight plan and moved on. To me, that shows how amazing the age of four is. He understands and yet he can create so freely because no one has explained to him that there are rules for things like that.

And yet, I fear that he is picking up more than I ever thought he would. I fear that these magical years are leaving us.

Drew understands that most people have jobs and, to my surprise, he has thought of his career. A few weeks before Christmas, he declared that when he grew up, he wanted to be Santa Claus so he could deliver presents to all of the "good kids". Well, that just tickled me to no end. Then yesterday, Drew came home from school and said that he really wanted to be a soldier. Even though I respect that career choice, the mom in me is pushing for Santa.

Work isn't the only thing on his mind, apparently, his family is too. Not too long ago, Drew declared the singer, Katy Perry--of the "I Kissed a Girl" song--his "best girl". Though this is a brazen choice for four years old, it shouldn't surprise me. Mark has always been attracted to the pinup girl style and it's only natural for Drew to follow his lead. It's still a little scary though. I've been praying for Drew to choose a thoughtful, nice woman to be his wife--when he's in his TWENTIES. Never in my wildest dreams did I think he'd choose a wild child at the age of FOUR.

(I need to add a sidenote here. We usually favor XM kids and the Playhouse Disney Soundtrack over mainstream radio for Drew. One night we happened to be watching So You Think You Can Dance and Ms. Perry was singing. It's been love ever since.)

I was offered a glimmer of hope yesterday when Drew went up to his preschool teacher and said, "One day I'm going to have to have a wife. Will you marry me?" How very sweet! But then the glimmer was over when Drew told me that he now had two girls. Ugh! Girl problems already!

I am holding on to the sweet moment of four with both hands. It worries me so much that the whimsy may be on it's way out the window. Youth is fleeting and the best parts of it leave so quickly. So for right now, I'll try to shelter my son, keeping him from those things that will make him grow up too quickly.

Here's to Four!

Home

2009-01-01T00:22:00.005-05:00

Home is a state of mind. It is an intangible manifestation of all of those things that make people feel cozy, loved, and wanted. Many people feel that home is a place but really, it's a moment in time that may last a few minutes for some and a lifetime for others. The thing about home is that once someone leaves--and I don't mean walking out the door for a run to the grocery store, but indelibly cuts ties--the place they come back to will never be the same. Try as they may to get back to that Euphoric place, there is no returning and like some crazy brand of heroin, people will try over and over to go back there. But it never happens. It never works.

For fifteen years, I considered Michigan--and more importantly Detroit--my home. In fact, I sometimes still refer to it as home. Case in point, someone once asked me where Mark and I were going for the weekend and I answered, "home." I didn't mean to the green house at the top of the hill but to the Motor City. And the truth is, since the U-haul pulled out of 47985 Jefferson Avenue in July of 1990, Michigan hasn't been my home. I guess I have wished that it was since that's where my beginnings were. Most of my roots came here with me when I left but one important one stayed behind--my quintessential prototype for womanhood, my grandmother.

So, yearning what was gone, I'd return Michigan but never back to Jefferson. I'd return to gram's house, hoping to reclaim what home felt like. Sometimes I could almost taste it, but not always completely. As of last week, I fear that even the aura of home has vanished forever.

Amanda and Erik (my cousin and Drew's Godparents) were in from Las Vegas to spend time with her mother. Mark and I decided that it would be a good idea to make the eight hour drive to spend a bit of time with them. We had seen them in November but since they were now on the other side of the country, who knew when we would have the opportunity again. A plan was set in motion to leave the night of the 26th after Mark got off of work. And then weather hell started happening all over the country. The more that we watched the weather forecast, the more we realized that it was dumb to drive all of that way in torrential weather with a four year old in the car. We cancelled our plans Christmas evening and decided to spend the 26th playing with toys and relaxing.

Drew and I spent the morning after Christmas putting some of his toys together. We ate cinnamon swirl waffles and talked on the phone to my mom about how much fun we were having. It was a good start to the day and it only looked up from there. Mark promised to take me to this new Japanese steak house. There would be no cooking tonight. And then my mother called back.

"So this is what happened," my mom said. That's all she needed to say. Something wasn't right. Nothing is right when someone starts a sentence with "so this is what happened." What happened was that my grandfather had fallen and he was being taken to the hospital. Gram is not well enough mentally or physically to be alone. My mom felt as if it were time for her to come be with us while things got straightened out. She wanted to know if we would go with her to get grandma.

Our trip to Michigan was back on.

Just like Mark and I had planned, we drove into the night. Actually, Mark drove, Drew slept, mom tried to relax, and I did a minute by minute check of the weather because of the hard driving rain and almost freezing conditions. When we reached Gram's little white house on the postage stamp sized plot of land, it was three in the morning. We parked our car in the narrow driveway and snuck in the side door.

I had been entering through that door over and over for the past 33 years of my life. Every time I have walked in, I've always been overcome with a feeling of comfort--a sense of knowing that everything is right in the world. With the exception of minor things, Gram's house is always the same. The furniture is always in the same spot. The kitchen is always to the left of the door, the bar to the right. The smell is always that same mingling of older house with fresh and clean. Everything is always neat and tidy and in it's place. Until last week.

The house that I entered was not my Gram's. Sure, most of the logistical stuff was the same. Other things had changed. For one, there was a weird stench in the air. Another was the dirt and grime. It was a place that my grandmother would have been ashamed of and yet, there she was, literally in the middle of it.

It took me two tries to locate my grandmother since she is now skin and bones but she was laying on the couch, snoozing in front of a running TV. For all of my life, I've listened as my Gram preached the importance of sleeping in one's bed. she always said that if we had bedrooms and beds, we should use them. Now here she was, asleep on the couch.

Right then and there, the last piece of home crumbled into nonexistence. This was no longer my grandmother's house like I knew it. The final remaining constant of my childhood had fizzled away.

Morning came early even though we got there late. At 7:00, my father called from his car that was rolled on it's side. He slipped on ice and totalled his car. Thankfully, he was not hurt. Officially at that moment, I knew that we were in the Twilight Zone. Things were too weird. Too many of my loved ones were in harms way.

In a state of panic, we threw everything in the car and started barrelling down I-94 sans Gram but toward poppa. Having spent a little under four hours in the city, it would have been my fastest turn around trip ever and we were almost out of Detroit when poppa called from the emergency room to tell us that we had to turn around. We should go back, take care of gram and then head back first thing tomorrow. It took a lot to convince my mom but eventually she calmed and we were back at Gram's house.

The majority of the day was spent cleaning the house so that when we left, it was in manageable order. Poor Mark spent the better part of the morning up to his elbows in excrement--first he took on the bathroom and the toilet that was more brown than white, then he cleaned the kitty litter pans which looked to have been neglected for at least a month. My mother and her brother tried to make sense of paperwork and medication, and I tried to entertain Gram when I wasn't vacuuming.

Gram was very confused. She had no idea who any of us were (which is heartbreaking since she's always been so special to me). I just kept re-introducing myself to her. She was infatuated with Drew, though she didn't know him either. Frankly, that didn't really matter. All that did was making sure that she was happy.

The ride home was uneventful if not a bit tiring for Mark and myself. We did manage to get in an evening visit with Amanda and Erik and we stayed as long as we possibly could. When 7:00 came, he and I were already exhausted. We had prepared ourselves for a fight with Gram about leaving, but it never happened. Like a complacent child, she climbed into the car, and we were off. Gram didn't say much for the ride. She just sat in the front seat, arms folded, not doing anything for almost ten hours.

Gram has been with my mom for almost two weeks now. Sometimes she knows my mom, sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes she has no idea why she's at my parent's house. More than that, she never knows me. Sure, I look awfully familiar and she keeps asking me in which house on her block I lived.

Yes, it breaks my heart. It almost kills me to be a first hand spectator of the mental death of my grandmother. I have come to the realization that I cannot stop it. Life keeps moving forward and Gram will continue to move away until nothing is left. It's the way that this works and this is why I hate alzheimers (or whatever this is) with all of my soul.

For as long as I have left, I will glance back at home--or whatever remanents are left--for as long as possible. I know that things will never be the same again but perhaps it's time for me to move on--to put the last piece of growing up in place. Perhaps it is time for me to begin creating these memories for Drew.

Home is gone.

The Crazy List

2008-12-09T09:09:00.008-05:00

I told myself I was going to do this yesterday but I never got there. Throughout the day today, I am going to keep track of all of the things that worry me. When I get a chance, they will show up here. So here we go:
1. I am thinking about Drew being an only child. We are making him selfish by nature and that concerns me. I want him to be able to share and he hasn't learned that yet.

(between 9:15-10:40)

2. I completely forgot about a meeting of which I am the chair. Notices need to go home to parents and it just left me until today. I think I'll be okay since the meeting isn't until next Thursday.

3. Eighteen people have been let go from Mark's job. He says he's not in any danger. His boss says he's not in any danger. Yet, I worry.

4. I think we mayb have bought Drew too many presents for Christmas. there are ten toys sitting in the storage closet. That's not counting underwear, socks, pants and the like.

5. What if we didn't get him enough for Christmas? What if ten presents isn't enough or I'm going to scar him for life with what we didn't buy? Drew wants a bird and we're not getting a stinking bird.

6. My stomach/whole right side is sometimes in pain. It could be nothing. It could be something. I thought this was a non issue again yesterday until I threw up my tuna sandwich last night.

Between 10:45-11:10

7. My classroom is a cluttery mess. There are piles of things everywhere and it's bordering on out of control and I don't really want to clean it.

At 12:00

8. I used the microwave in my room and I always think about the fact that I should unplug it before I leave the room in case it should somehow catch on fire.

9. I am wheezing and crackling when I breathe. Plus, I think I'm going to lose my voice. Some good as a story teller I'll be tonight without a voice!

Between 1:45-2:00

10. The food didn't come through on the little school soiree tonight. Now we're organizing something new. What if all of the parents and kids attack us? What if there isn't enough.

4:23

11. I was looking for something in the school fridge that was mine to eat since I only had a canck sized popcorn for lunch. I found some morning Star burgers that I had left in there and then found some school ranch dressing. I packet looked a little shady and did not have a date on it so I opened it up and tasted it before tossing it. Now I'll worried about getting food poisoning.

Why I Suck As a Mom

2008-12-09T08:31:00.002-05:00

Today, when all is said and done, I will have been at school for over thirteen hours. Only eight hours will be paid; the rest is out of the goodness of my not so good heart. The kicker is that that is over four times the amount of time that I will get to spend with my son today, if you count that time at all because technically I'll be working (for free) so he's not going to be the center of my attention. This is not the first time that I have done this during this school year nor will it be the last.

Sometimes I think about how truly unfair this is to Drew. I probably wouldn't be the best stay at home mom but the plan was that I would work for a few years and then find a way to stay at home. My mom did it for me when I was younger; Mark's mom (otherwise known as SuperParent) always did it. Well, the plan didn't work out the way we expected and so here I am, still clicking away and overachieving at that.

I think this might be why Drew is a little clingy to us. We don't spend nearly the amount of time with him that we should. It really isn't about the stuff either. At this moment in time, it's all about keeping our head above water. Perhaps if I had gone into medical transcribing or something else, I could be at home with him and still bringing in some money. Right now as it stands, I can't think of a way to make my measely income at home. I'm thinking though.

So tonight, the three of us will have a quick dinner around my kidney shaped table. I'll get ten minutes to catch up on the day and then it will be work time once more. Then we'll drive the twenty or so minutes home, Drew will have a shower, we'll read a book and I'll apologize over and over again for today.

But there will never be a way that I can make this up.

Girl Soup--An Amanda Moment

2008-12-05T21:36:00.001-05:00

Friday afternoon I was driving home from school. It had been a pretty chilly day and since I have a room outside of the school, I had spent the better part of the day walking in and out of the cold. By 3:30, I was frozen solid and nowhere close to getting used to the sensation. So it was with great relief that I hopped in the car, turned the heat up to 90, tried to thaw out.

I began to think of ways to warm myself from the inside out. There were fantasies of hot tea and hot chocolate. Then I thought of soup. Yummy hot soup in flavors like mushroom, cream of crab and french onion. I wanted something hearty, warm, and fulfilling.

At some point in the middle of my chain reaction thinking, I remembered a soup that Amanda and I used to make--girl soup. It's kind of funny that my mind went there since this is not a warm soup, or even one that has liquid in it. Come to think of it, I'm not sure why we called it girl soup when it could have had any of a number of other names.

The first girl soup was made about ten years ago. Mark and I were in Michigan for Amanda's confirmation; I was her sponsor. We were there a few days early so there was plenty of time to hang out. We went to the mall, watched TV, visited her grandmother in the nursing home, and just talked. It was nice.

Amanda is a crafty person and she has been making her own jewelery for years. On this particular trip, I noticed a really pretty lucite bracelet that she was wearing. When I got closer to it, I noticed that it wasn't lucite at all but rather a toothbrush that had been bent and painted. Well, I needed one of those so we took off to Rite Aid to get the necessary supplies.

At some point on that shopping trip, we found ourselves in the candy aisle and we picked a few (like twenty or so) bags of assorted candy. Things are fuzzy after ten years but I think the reasoning behind that was that we needed variety. And variety we achieved. There were chocolate pieces and gummy things. there were suckers and pixie sticks. All of the various and sundry candy groups were represented in our selections.

We checked out with a basket of ten or so toothbrushes and twenty bags of candy. The look on the cashier's face was priceless. I have no idea what she thought we were up to but she thought something and giggled the whole time she rang us through. I'm sure we were the talk of the Rite Aid that night.

Back at Amanda's house, we lined up the candy, put on a pot of water to boil, and began opening toothbrushes. We began to realize that we were taking up a lot of space and that it was cumbersome to open and close each bag of candy. So we grabbed a big bowl and dumped everything in. It really did look like a silly soup of different colors, shapes and textures. And since we were girls, it only made sense that this new concoction be called girl soup.

My favorite part of the first girl soup weekend occured a few mornings later. After Mark, Amanda and I were awake, we went downstairs and found Amanda's brother Bryan passed out on the couch, his arms wrapped around the soup.

"Bryan, what are you doing?" Amanda demanded. "That's girl soup."

He rolled over and very sleepily said, "It's boy soup now."

When Amanda and Erik were her a few weeks ago, mark asked if we were going to make girl soup. It was almost at the same time that we said no. There would be no more girl soup since both of us were trying to be healthy. What a sad, sad moment. Maybe one day in the future Amanda and I will make healthy girl soup with granola and dried fruit. Who knows.

I guess I'll be settling for some hot soup like chicken noodle or vegetable. That would be so good right now that I'm cold.

On Writing

2008-12-05T20:58:00.002-05:00

I have the (mis) fortune of seeing everything around me through the creative lens of a writer. Everything is a narrative waiting to happen, every person a character beggint to take form. It's something that I can't turn off. Believe me, I've tried. The truth of the matter is that there are moments that are inappropriate to write about so it's very hard for me to see the story forming in my head, knowing that I'm going to have to just toss it out. That very thing happened yesterday during a time that was kind of confidential. The whole time I'm thinking, "Wow, there's a story here," and yet, I can't. Some things just can't be.

There are other times when I don't want the story to be in my head. I don't want to be thinking, I want to be in the moment. A couple of months ago, we were at the funeral home because one of our friends passed away. It was a very sad time and emotions flowed openly all around me. For a good deal of time, I stood there, taking in the stories because there were so many. The potential was everywhere, the grief was palapable, the stories and the tears flowed like water. I didn't even realize that I was in my head until a friend who knows me extremely well touched my arm and said, "Wow, Margs, you're writing aren't you?" And she was right. I was storing away the story. My response was, "I can't stop thinking."

That's the truth. I get hung up there and I can't turn it off. I think that's why I have this tendency to be an insomniac. I can't turn it off. Through the years, I've adopted two habits that seem to help me. The first thing that I do is take a hot bath in the dark with the door closed. The darker and quieter the better. I concentrate on the water and the steam and try to push the day away. I turn off the stories from the day.

Then, after dressing in the dark, I get into bed and I tell myself stories until I fall asleep. As I am typing that, I realize exactly how strange that sounds. This is something that I've done since I was a child (it's something that got me in trouble too, isn't is Paris?). I have an ongoing story that is all mine and I think myself into oblivion. Most of the time it works but every once in awhile it fails miserably and I sit up just thinking.

Even more frutstrating is that every once in a while, I'll wake up at three or four in the morning with the perfect words in my head. A pretty decent story (and not just an annoying blog) will have formed in my sleep. Most of these ideas get lost because I will think, "Tomorrow morning I'll write this down," and then roll over and try to go back to sleep. In the morning, it's always gone. The slate is wiped clean. I've grown smarter and now I keep a pen, a light wedge (the greatest invention ever) and a notebook next to the bed so I can save my words. Of course, this hasn't happened since I've given myself tools.

But still, there are just so many things that I think should go on paper that doesn't make it there for one reason or another. I think about muffins, moments in bookstores, places I've been or want to go, the woman that I saw flirt with the chef at the omlette station at a hotel (I really should have written this one down. Fascinating moment), etc., etc. Life is a story waiting to happen.

Ironically, with all of this thinking and all of these stories swirling around me, I've yet to find my muse. My big story hasn't popped in my head. That might be the hardest part because until that happens, I'm busy filtering through the thoughts in my head. I'm trying my hardest to record my nocturnal thoughts. I'm trying not to offend anyone and I'm trying not to look like a zombie when I slip into my thoughts in the middle of the grocery store--which happened today--or at another inopportune time.

I'm not trying to complain here. My thoughts and my words are a blessing. I don't know what I would do without this gift. It's just that sometimes gifts are not perfect and mine is not.

Still, a gift is a gift and I'll take whatever I can get.

The Best Laid Plans

2008-11-30T20:45:00.004-05:00

I'm the kind of person who makes long term connections or none at all. I don't want to be friends with someone for five minutes. If I'm going to bother to care, it has to be a long term project. I'm in it for keeps because I'm in it with my heart mind and soul.

One of the deepest rooted connections in my life is with my cousin, Amanda. She is ten years younger than me but has been in my life for twenty three wonderful years. There is this picture of her mother holding me when I was a baby, one of me holding her when she was a baby, and now we have one of her and Drew when he was a baby. She was in my wedding when she was ten years old and I was her confirmation sponsor. When Drew was born, we asked Amanda and her then boyfriend, Erik, to be his Godparents. Then, when she got married on July 13, 2007, Mark, Drew, and I were all in the wedding. We're entwined and I care for her and Erik deeply. In fact, I sometimes wonder why she and I aren't sisters.

Last year Amanda and Erik had to make the hard decision to leave Detroit. Things are not that great in the Motor City right now and Erik was having a hard time getting a teaching job. Still, it was the shock of all shocks when we found out that they were moving to Nevada. I mean Detroit isn't around the corner but Nevada is on the other side of the country. Little visits were out of the question, especially for us since Mark doesn't like to (or just plain won't) fly.

For the better part of a year now, she and I have stayed in touch by many long distance phone calls. All I have to say is thank God for almost free long distance because she and I talk a lot. But phone calls are not as great as the real thing and so I've missed her for all of this time--so has Mark and Drew.

It was a really wonderful surprise when she called one day in September and said that she and Erik has a plane voucher that they had to use. They were wondering if they could come see us for a long weekend. Of course the answer was HELL YES. So for almost two months, we planned. We picked dates that fit everyone's schedule. Mark and I both took a day off of work. This wasn't easy for me because it was Grandparent's Day and so I caught a lot of ribbing for leaving on one of the most hectic days of the year. Erik took the day off from his classroom and the wheels were set in motion.

That Thursday, Mark and I were both heavy with anticipation of their arrival the next morning. We took Drew to eat at one of our favorite restaurants and enjoyed a nice dinner before calling them to check up on the packing. As soon as we knew that they were in order, Mark and I put Drew to bed and then tried to sleep ourselves.

Yeah, Not happening.

Around midnight, I woke up in a coughing fit. After a drink of water and a trip to the bathroom, I laid myself back down and tried to calm myself back down. In the process of doing so, I heard a sound coming from Drew's room. I immediately knew what it was. "He's puking," I said aloud and Mark must have been awake because he hit the door at just about the same time I did. Sure enough, Drew's peanut butter and banana sandwich made a repeat performance all of her Elmo comforter. And only hours from Erik and Amanda's arrival. We were all devastated but optimistic that maybe this was a fluke thing.

Nevertheless, after I had cleaned up Drew and while Mark scraped the goo off of Elmo (poor guy drew the short stick) I called Amanda's cell.

"Hey, where are you guys?" I cradled Drew's little head against my chest, rubbing his belly.

"Hi!" Amanda sounded so excited. "We're on the airport shuttle. Why are you awake?"

"Because Drew just puked."

"Oh no!" I heard her repeat the news to Erik.

And then, in what can only be called great stupidity (or bravery), Amanda and Erik got on the plane. As they were flying, we were trying to calm Drew back to sleep and both praying silently that the vomiting had ended.

It hadn't. As soon as he woke up, Drew threw up the little bit of water that he had in his system. I prepared Mark to take the trip to the airport by himself and Drew and I prepared for the couch. And then something really interesting happened.

The most important thing to know about my son is that he's very hard headed. In fact, I think we're dealing with granite here. When he gets an idea into his thick skull, it's hard to deter him--no matter the amount of things taken away or the duration of timeouts. I keep on telling myself that one day this will work out in our favor...hopefully.

So my hard headed little boy says that he really wants to go see Amanda and Erik. He tells me he's so much better and even completes a running lap around the house to demonstrate. I believed him, and just to be safe, threw some Motrin into his mouth, grabbed an orange Popsicle and a four cup measuring cup. And as a family, we were off to BWI to pick up two of our Most Important People.

Most of the two hour trip to BWI was uneventful. Drew sucked on his Popsicle. We talked and read books. I overreacted (something new and different) if he so much as coughed. When both of us thought the coast was clear, we tried to feed him a few baked Lay's. Yeah, bad choice. About ten minutes after they hit the stomach, those puppies made their way to the measuring cup and found themselves floating in a sea of radioactive looking orange liquid.

But still, my little guy soldiered on. We were early and he wanted to go up to the observation tower. When we were up there, Drew ran around and played like someone who was well. Then he flung himself at our cousins as they walked out of the terminal. He and Amanda made a big game of jumping off of the escalators when they came to the end. It was my well Drew...

...Until we got in the car and 1/4 cup of water came spewing out of his body. For the record, I would like to mention that I was not keeping official track of vomit. It's just hard not to remember things like that when measurements are clearly marked on the puke bucket.

Amanda and Erik were really good about the whole thing. They were all weekend long as a matter of fact. In some ways, I think it was better to have a sick Drew because we didn't try to fit a million activities in during the weekend. Instead, we all curled on the couch and talked. Talking face to face with Amanda is a treat that I don't get every day.

By Saturday evening, Drew was better and on Sunday morning, they were getting ready to leave. I'm sure the weekend wasn't what they expected. It certainly wasn't what Mark and I had planned. Regardless, it was a great weekend, even for Drew.

Who knows when we'll see Amanda and Erik again. Hopefully it is soon--and no one is throwing up.

Love Bites--My Obsession with Books

2008-11-25T20:45:00.005-05:00

I love the written word--always have, always will. There is just something so amazing and so pure about how people can take simple words and phrases and craft them into something that runs the gamut from frightening, edge of your seat gore to a beautiful love story that spans the test of time. Though I've always been a reader (or a listener when I didn't know how to read), I didn't understand the true eloquence of words for a long time. I guess that comes with time and exposure. That comes when the right person attaches themselves to the right book.

For me that moment occurred when I was twelve. I bought a book at the book fair that was called Jacob Have I Loved. With some trepidation, I picked it up and allowed myself to be pulled into this story of a misunderstood girl trapped on a small island in Maryland. It was my first reading epiphany. It was also the first time that I fell in love with a fictitious character--Call Purnell, the once chubby kid who makes good but doesn't love Louise and favors her twin sister instead. That whole delicate love triangle was my first taste of heartbreak and the fulfillment of moving on.

From that moment, I was hooked more than ever. I devoured every and any book that I could get my hands on. For a long time it was teen romances. I would sit down with a pile of stories like Ten Speed Summer and Six Months to Live looking for the treasure that was in Jacob Have I Loved. I'm still on that quest and sadly, like all voracious readers, I'm let down more than I'm rewarded but I hold out for the next literary gem and my next literary crush, because let me tell you that I've had a few.

I slaved through 1472 pages of Les Miserables to enjoy Cosette's sometimes tragic and sometimes idyllic life. Along the way, I fell madly for Marius Pontmercy, the young revolutionary who wants to stand up for what he believes in, and always wants to give in to love for Cosette. I endured the hardships of England during World War II in the book Coming Home by Rosamunde Pilcher and along the way, I enjoyed the story of Judith Dunbar and her love for two men-Edward Carey Lewis, the rich boy, and Jeremy Wells, the country doctor who travels the world to help the troops.

There are so many more but those are two of the gems. I have been on the lookout for another good one but haven't had the pleasure of running across some really quality writing for some time. And then, two weeks ago, I found it in the most unlikely of locations. I hate to even say what the object of my reading obsession is right now because it sounds so silly. But here it is:

We were in Target and I was in the book aisle, undecided on what I was going to get. I spun around and looked at the Young Adult books when the thing that I had been avoiding was right in front of my face: Twilight. My sister (a non reader) was obsessed with the books and I just couldn't see how they could be that good. But because I needed something to read, I bought the first book and reluctantly began to read.

And boy was I ever wrong. Call me a literary snob because I sure feel like one. Here I was too good to buy a book because it was for teens and in the process, I neglected myself of some great writing. Stephenie Meyer is a master at words. She has crafted a beautiful love story that is beyond the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet and full of a love that is pure and beats all odds. I was hooked and in two weeks, I have eaten up all four books and found a new book guy.

I love Edward Cullen. I do. I love everything about him. The idea of this 90 some year old man caught int he body of a perfect 17 year old is genius. Not only does he have looks and grace of movement, but there's also this genteel quality about him that comes with age. Stephenie Meyer did an outstanding job of crafting her words perfectly.

Sadly, my first encounter with Twilight is coming to a fast end. I'm almost finished with the unpublished (and unfinished) Midnight Sun and I'm inches away from sending an email to Ms. Meyer asking her to finish what she started because there have got to be more people who are as addicted as I am.

So now I have another gem to add to my collection--Edward and his Bella--and I'm off again, looking for my next prize. Ugh! Boy what I'd do for some more Edward.

OC Mommy

2008-11-25T20:24:00.003-05:00

Neurotic.

I am quite sure that if one were to look this word up in the dictionary, they would find a wee little picture of me waving back at them. I've never been one not to own up to what I am so I'm stating it loud and clear--I am a person with neurosis. I am anxious and worried at all turns. The smallest things worry me. I guess that's why I spent a good part of my childhood evenings checking the stove to make sure it was off.

As if being neurotic for myself wasn't enough, after thirty years of existence, I received a new obsession--Drew. My worrying about him started before he was born. In fact, when he was still "in the belly", I used to poke at my abdomen if he wasn't moving enough. I had to make sure that he was responsive. After all, there was this episode of ER where a pregnant woman's child flipped over and tied a knot into the umbilical cord, thus cutting off the blood supply and killing the baby. I couldn't let that happen to him.

When he was born, all of my worries grew tenfold. I carried What to Expect: The First Year around like a bible and would check off the milestones like a shopping list. I dressed Drew in stripes so that I could watch his chest rise and fall better while he was sleeping, and death was swiftly administered to whomever tried to touch him without washing their hands. I don't think I went out of my way to shelter Drew, just protect him.

In the four years since his birth, I've gotten a little better about overreacting. I mean, sure all of the outlets are still covered, there are locks on all of the cabinets and I threw away a ton of toys when the red paint on them matched the one that was found to have lead in it's paint. Yeah maybe I go crazy any time there's a little red bump on his skin (and to make matters worse, I have a child that shows every single little mark), but I'm a lot better than I was before.

But still, every once in a while, I see little things that set me off. For instance, a few weeks ago, I was watching the Today Show while getting dressed for school. They showed a video of a family on vacation and they were taking pictures by this cliff overlooking the ocean. A little girl stood with her family laughing and playing--until she leaned up against the wooden fence and fell right through. The little girl wasn't hurt. She landed on a small piece of land but that video rocked me to the core. In fact, I started crying and shaking. All it would take was an instant and that little girl could have been dead.

Up until seeing that video, I had been thinking a lot about talking Mark into taking a family vacation to Bar Harbor, Maine. To me, there's nothing as beautiful as sitting on the granite cliffs, feeling the spray of the ocean as it licks the rocks. And then I had this image of Drew leaning too close to an edge and falling into the cold water, never to be seen again. We won't be taking that trip any time soon.

It's so hard for me to protect him, but not be overprotective of him. The thing is, I just have him. He's my one and only chance, if I screw up or he gets hurt, that's all she wrote. I need everything to be perfect and in that perfection, I'm realizing that I have to give up on some of my worrying. What will be will be. I can't think about the fact that the bottle he used as a baby may have leached plastic. There's nothing I can do about that. And I can't shelter him--too much.

It's just this one shot.

Ugh. I think I'm going to need to take up yoga or something to get over my issues.

Fear and Loathing in November

2008-11-02T14:39:00.002-05:00

I absolutely detest Autumn. In fact, the only thing that I hate more is Winter. To me, it is an awful time of the year that is filled with nothing good. I mean sure there's Halloween and Thanksgiving but the only thing that those holidays are about is scary the pants off of little children and eating copious amounts of food. It's kind of fitting that the FAT holidays come in November since many people emotionally over eat and right now is such a depressing time.

To me, it feels an awful lot like a wake. We're mourning the sun who has decided to only shine on us for a couple of hours a day (thank GOD I don't live in Alaska during the winter though I'd love to be there for the summer). We're also mourning the leaves because even if they have turned gorgeous shades of red, yellow, and orange, they are all DYING and will soon litter our grass in large piles of brittle brown leftovers. Yea us!

I hate having to wear sweaters and jackets. It infuriates me that I have to put away all of my sandals and actually wear socks. And I'm truly pissed about this nasty cold that I've caught. A box of tissues is not what I consider a fashion accessory yet that's what has been constantly under my arm for at least a week now. My body is fighting the fall just as much as my mind is and it's only going to get worse since we've set the clocks back and those of us with gainful employment will not see the sun again until April.

I hate fall. I hate November. I hate all of it. But just like anything else, there is one little glimmer of hope--one tiny indulgence that belongs solely to November.

Pomegranates. Yes, I know that this fruit has become hip in the past few years but let me tell you, I've been a lover for a long long time. And the thing is, I've tasted the juice and I've put it on my salad but nothing is better than having the actual ugly fruit in front of me. The only time that a pomegranate tastes truly right to me is when I tear it open and fish out the little ruby colored seeds, coveting each one like the jewel that it is. Then, when I slide it in my mouth and feel the burst of juice on my tongue--UGH!--the next three seconds of fall aren't that bad.

I've made my son a believer in pomegranates. He stands next to me with his hands out, waiting for his share of the seeds. We both have purple stained finger tips out of adoration for one of our favorite fruits. Drew thinks that there's a lot of work involved in eating a pomegranate but I've told him that some things are worth it and pomegranates are one of those things.

There will be a lot of pomegranates eaten here this November. Drew and I will wear out purple smudges with smiles of pride. We've found what we needed to pull us through the first dreary month. Now I need to find a non food related hobby for December, January, and February.

Any suggestions?

The Beginning...and the End

2008-10-25T21:42:00.002-04:00

People flow in and out of our lives like the changing of tides. There is no rhyme or reason for how or why it happens--it just does. Some people are part our existence forever--they are as familiar as gym socks and stay anchored in our lives from the moment they enter. Others come and go and that's okay. The one thing that I've come to realize is that each and every person along the way serves a purpose for us. They leave an indelible mark on our lives. At first, it might be obvious why they were there or why they left but it's our job to be open to the lesson--to accept each moment and each person with open arms. Sometimes we don't realize until it's much too late exactly what that person meant to us. This is something that has been in my head for the past few days.

Last week, one of Mark's friends died in a freak accident. No one expected this to happen so the news leveled a lot of people, including my husband and many of his friends. I mean this was relatively healthy man with three children who was going about his journey in this world when he lost control of his car and ended up losing his life in the process. It's not the way things were planned but it's the way that things happen.

I got the phone call early in the morning and had the duty of telling Mark. The thing is that Mark and Kevin were not as close as they once were. Right after high school, the two of them spent a lot of time together but life and other issues had caught up with both of them and now communication between them was random moments at the grocery or dollar store. Still, the two of them hugged and smiled. They took a few moments to catch up on each other's lives and made false promises to get together. It's sad that things ended like that when the beginning was so different.

Kevin was there for Mark's and my first date. He cheered on a nervous Mark as my now husband rested his arm on the couch while I slipped out of the room. Mark also confided his love for me with Kevin. I think he also got much needed dating advice from him. In fact, when I think of the first six months of my relationship with Mark, Kevin and his then girlfriend are in at least half of these memories. There are picnics, car rides, dinners, and other sundry events that I can't think of without remembering his hearty laugh and his large, always evident smile. So even if he wasn't a big part of our present, Kevin is the best part of our past.

I think that anyone who knew Kevin thought of him as a positive influence in their lives. He will be missed in a big way. I don't think Mark will ever stop looking over his shoulder in Food Lion. It just feels like he's going to sneak up on us in the milk aisle at any moment.

I truly feel that Kevin inadvertently helped me find the love of my life. It's only a minuscule part of his legacy. Nothing really worth noting to other people, but it means the world to me. And for that I will always be grateful.

Monkey Picked Craziness

2008-10-18T21:59:00.007-04:00

Bliss. Everyone finds it in different ways. For me, one of the most decadent luxuries is a glass of tea. When I'm holding a glass of that warm, sweet, translucent liquid in my hands, everything seems to fade away. There are no traumas, no losses, no arguments. Everyone and everything is whole and the universe is just how it should be as the steam wafts up to my nose. A good cup of tea is my drug--my cure for a world that is so less than perfect right now.

A good cup of tea--that's the operative phrase. No Bigelow or Lipton. No thank you. Anything found in the grocery store is just a cheap imitation of what tea should be. The bagged stuff is nothing but the scraps--the extra tea bits and pieces that are swept up packaged. That's not for me. Just like a connoisseur of fine wine, I'm always on the hunt for something better. I collect loose teas that come from single tea estates. I crave vintage, not Boone's. Call me a tea snob. I don't care.

Where does one procure this kind of tea? Well, thanks to the birth of the Internet, it's available anywhere. I can get any kind of tea to fit any kind of need that I have with just a click of my mouse and the insertion of the right credit card numbers. But with tea, nothing is like picking it out yourself.

A couple of times a year, we go to Tyson's Corner and while we are there, I make a sojourn to my favorite store--Teavana. Like the name implies, the place is a blissful zen complete with bamboo flooring, Asian teapots, and the subtle fragrance of tea. And the best part is that one whole wall of the store is filled with this bookshelf like structure and in every compartment is a steel-like drum with a tightly sealed lid that is filled with quality tea. They are all organized according to type--black tea, white tea, green tea, herbal, rooibos, fusions, oolongs. Ahhh, heaven.

My favorite part of going to Teavana is that they have a menu-like guide that explains every tea that can be studied as I am waiting in line to make my selections. Everything is sold in two ounce sizes and since nothing is cheap, I find the need to study, think, and explore before purchasing.

Unlike buying a box of Tetley, when buying loose teas, there's a chance to interact with the product. I always ask to see the tea first and I feel strangely giddy when the person behind the counter walks over to the tea drums, selects the one I want, and then sits it in front of me, pulling off the lid with a resounding ching. Usually, the will also swirl the tea in the container. It's a chance to watch it move, to look at the color and texture, to smell the earthy scent.

One time while I was making my selections, this guy was next to me buying several different types of black and herbals. He had a list that was extensive and I think he was someone's assistant because he had no interest in what he was doing..until I sidled up to the counter next to him. As I'm sniffing, swirling, and carefully selecting, he started asking questions. It was kind of funny to watch this metrosexual gentleman look around to make sure that no one he knew was watching him sniff tea.

I would have to say that I have two favorite teas. One is called drum cloud white mountain and it's a very soft and clean tasting white tea. I have a variety where it has been mixed with bits of dried strawberries. Very nice. My other favorite is the holy grail of all teas, one of the hardest to buy and the most expensive--Monkey Picked Oolong.

The story goes that many centuries ago, Buddhist monks used to train monkeys to climb into tea trees and pluck the nicest leaves that were the hardest to get to. Though I was surprised to find out that some monkeys are still being used to pick tea, now the term "monkey picked" is used to identify the highest quality of oolong tea.

I have had the pleasure of buying it once--more than that is insane--and I have to say that I felt like a celebrity when I paid. The cashier looked at me in awe. "You got the monkey picked." I just smiled at her and said, "I hope it's good." She reassured me that it was a good purchase and when I got home and heated up the water, I knew she was right. It was the most wonderful thing that I've ever drunk and worth the small fortune I invested.

Yes, I know that all of this is silly and over the top but some days there's a need for that. Some days, witt's end has come and gone and there's nothing else to hold on to. On days like that, I know that my teapot is at home, beckoning my name and that all I have to do is pour in some water and add whatever my heart is desiring at that moment.

And for just a moment, while I am allowing my hands to be warmed by the porcelain, while I am breathing in the scent and tasting the liquid, everything is right with the world. There are no bills. Everyone is safe at home. There's no fighting, no death, no loss.

It's on days like this--when I feel like the whole world is falling apart all around me--that I need tea.

Manifesto

2008-10-18T21:43:00.002-04:00

I very rarely write about my work, more than to admit that I am an elementary school teacher. Part of that is because teaching is only part of who and what I am. The other reason is that it's way to sensitive of an area. There are so many ways that I could breech confidentiality without even realizing that I've ever done it. So rather than tread lightly, I choose not to tread at all.

Until today. I've been doing some thinking and so I'm throwing this out there.

I've heard so many times that teachers are heroes because they do noble work. I'd like to say right now that I don't think of myself as a hero. I haven't run into any burning buildings to save anyone. I didn't find a way to feed and clothe the masses of homeless (though I wish I could). I have not won a Nobel Peace Prize or found a cure for a disease, so in no way am I a hero. I do think that teachers everywhere have a challenge that is heroic in size and effort. I'd be a hero if I could find a way to get everything that I need to accomplished in one year. It never happens and that in and of itself makes me human.

Yes, some teachers touch lives. The fact of the matter on this is that everyone--teacher or not has the opportunity to touch someone's life. So even though I have a T-shirt with this little motto on it, I am careful to remember that this is not something saved just for me or just for my profession. This is a humanity thing.

Personally, what I'm always trying to make connections with students. I want to find a way to be an everlasting memory in their lives. I want to help them have a good experience. All it takes is one person--one teacher, principal, or specialist--to turn a student off from school forever and I don't want that blood to fall on my hands.

More than helping students figure out how to read, my most important job is to be a good person, not because I want to be a hero or I'm out to touch lives. I want to provide what I would expect for myself and for my own son. Knowledge is power. I want to pass that power on to as many people as possible.

At the end of the day, it's just a job. It's a job that I slave over, that causes me to laugh, cry and pull my hair out. It's akin to the Peace Corps as it's the toughest job I'll ever love. And some days I can see me doing one hundred other things, but others there's nothing that I'd like to do more.

Confessions of a Mallrat

2008-10-02T20:26:00.004-04:00

His name was Alex, and for the life of me, I can't remember what he looked like but for the rest of my years, he will always be tied to my preteen years and my memories of crushes, friendships, puberty and shopping malls. Though I can't see his face, this is what I do remember: Alex worked at the Kirby's Coney Island that was neatly placed next to the Sbarro's and right across the way from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Coney's are a Michigan tradition and though the National Coney Island is the king of Detroit, Kirby's had the market cornered on the Lakeside Mall.

Every chance we'd get, my friends Kandy, Jason, and myself would try to finagle one of our parents to drop us off at Lakeside and then get someone else to pick us up later. I hardly remember any instances where any of us had any kind of real money to spend but we'd window shop just the same, checking out Contempo Casuals and picking out things in Hudson's that we'd buy if we could. It was a taste of freedom, a moment where we could feel like we were adults doing adult things though all three of us were far from it.

Like any good shopper, we would always make time for lunch and that usually happened at Kirby's. The location was central to all the good stores, the food was good and--even better--it was cheap, and if we were lucky, Alex, the cute waiter would be working. I know we only got lucky two or three times, but let me tell you, those times were worth it. My foggiest recollections of Alex make me think that he was tall, had dark hair, and was probably Greek. All I know is that he was cute and both Kandy and I thought so.

So we'd roll on into Kirby's hoping for Alex, but usually end up with someone else. There was this one time when the stars were lined perfectly and he waited on our table. I am positive that I drooled the whole time, and then, in my pre-teen eyes, I made a complete fool of myself.

Alex dropped off our food and gave us what must have been a winning smile. "Enjoy your food."

Of course, I smiled back and said, "Thanks, you too." And though now that I'm 33 years old it seems like a big nothing, at the time I was mortified that I would say such a thing to someone who wasn't eating. Kandy and Jason just thought it was funny.

The funny thing is that Alex no longer symbolizes a boy to me. He has come to be a part of the magical time in my life when I was learning who I was and how I fit in this world. He is a memory that fits into one of my first strong friendships. The time I spent with Kandy and Jason at that mall has solidified who I am as a person in some ways. It's my silly beginnings, my Beaches moment, and I think one of the reasons that I seem to make friendships that span time. I owe that to Kandy and Jason...and maybe Alex but I don't think so.

In 1990, I left Michigan and I left behind Kandy and Jason. Kandy and I talked on the phone a lot. She was the Maid of Honor in my wedding and we've helped each other through miscarriages, births, deaths, and the trials of growing up. Funny thing is, I think I've seen her once in the last ten years. We still talk by emails and occaisionally on the phone. She lives in North Carolina now and has a wonderful family.

Jason...I could write all kinds of things about him but the truth is that for a long time, we lost contact. He was growing up and I was playing house. People grow apart. That's part of life but coming full circle is also part of who we are. One day I was looking at a webpage for a prominent dance company in New York. His name was on the site and I couldn't help myself. I sent threw out an email. I didn't really expect anything back but when I checked my inbox and saw a note from him, I melted. He and I have both grown up and I think we understand ourselves--and each other so much better than we ever did before though there's this funny ongoing fued about lawnchairs as living room furniture.

Somewhere inside of me is the fourteen year old Margee. And in that place is Alex, the mall, and vegetarian pitas. But also in that place are three kids, trying to grow up and find their ways. It's a part of me I fight not to forget, even though the memories get a little nostalgic and fuzzy around the edges.

Guilt By Telephone

2008-10-01T19:07:00.002-04:00

Today was the second day in a row that I've been home with a sick child. Yesterday I thought it was one of the myriad of viruses flying around right now...until the huge white dots formed on his tonsils. Then I knew that the strep throat that I had last week had found a new home in my son. Oh joy! After a day filled with trips to the doctor, the pharmacy, and cuddling, I was a bit stressed. There are at least twelve million things that still need to be done and by four today, I was feeling the pressure.

In the middle of my time in the pressure cooker, the phone rings and I answered it without looking at the caller ID first (my mistake). The person on the other line was Michelle, and she was just calling to let me know that my one and only credit card was okay, but I could get protection on my spending for the low low cost of $1.80 for every 180.00. When she asked me for my information so that she could help me with this process, I told her I wasn't interested but thanked her very much; and she continued talking, I hung up.

That split second that my finger hit the "end" button, I was filled with a really strange guilt. Here was this woman that was just trying to do her job and I hung up on her. I used to think that telemarketers were the scum of the earth. They were the lowest of the low--the paramecium's of the working world. And then something happened to my family that changed that thinking forever.

Drew was almost four months old and let me tell you, life with a child of that age is not easy. On top of that, Mark and I just built a new house that was everything that I always wanted. We had two big car payments plus the extra large electricity bill that goes with an extra large house. We went into all of this knowingly. Mark was working for his family and his salary paid for all of it. My measly teacher's salary was for incidentals.

This was how things were until January 9th when Mark took a stand against the horrible decisions that his mother was making involving the plant. He called in the middle of the afternoon and said, "I quit and I feel good about it." That was all well and good until the fallout hit. Rumors were circulating that were untrue, everything that we could once afford now all of the sudden was way too expensive, and since Mark has over thirteen years of managerial skills but no college, getting a great job was not going to happen.

After a month of searching, he took a job at a local credit agency doing customer service and sales. Though Mark didn't have to call anyone directly, he did have to try to pitch horrible products to people who didn't want to buy them and ended up hanging up on him. It was all there was at that moment and every time he'd call home, I could hear the stress in his voice. He didn't want to offer things to people but not doing it meant his job.

To make matters worse, Mark's hours were Monday thru Thursday from 2:00-12:30. When Drew and I were home, he was somewhere else and when he was home, we were sleeping or leaving. Both of us tried to make concessions to have time together. Mark would bring lunch to school and I would wake up at 2 in the morning to visit with him (usually Drew was up to eat around then anyway so it was a nice family time.)

This was a really tough time on our family. There were only about twenty transitions going on and it was wearing on all of us. People at the grocery store would look at me with puppy dog eyes and say, "Are you okay?" I would answer the same way--with what was going to be my mantra for a long time. "Everything is going to be fine." The words would come out and I'd will myself to believe it. Sure, everything was going to be fine when our income was cut more than in half, we had large bills and family members were accusing us of terrible things. We were going to be fine. Uh huh.

I think I said it enough because eventually even I began to believe it. Mark found a new job that was a little more put together. Drew learned how to sleep through the night. We worked out how to pay the bills and stil eat. We are okay--most of the time.

So when I hung up on Michelle today, all of that came rushing back. What if Michelle was doing this to make ends meet? What if she was going to be at work until midnight and would eventually call home to tell someone how horrible her day was? I could have just added to someone's horrible day and I feel horrible about that.

This is my public apology to Michelle, a person who I don't even know but I feel for. Does that mean that I'm not going to hang up on telemarketers? Probably not but I feel the pain.

Pancakes

2008-09-28T10:12:00.003-04:00

Sunday mornings are always interesting at my house. Mark is usually up early and out running with his cronies no matter how late we stayed up the night before and Drew seems to creep into bed as the sun rises, cuddling next to me and demanding breakfast and cartoons. I know that one day soon Drew's not going to want to get so close to me that he could actually be a part of my skin so until that day happens, I'm enjoying this time together just as much as I enjoy the Sunday routine. Believe it or not, Sunday's are a peaceful day around here and I relish the whole thing. But, like anything else involving the Hill family, I have come to expect the unexpected and today is one of those days when morning didn't go exactly as planned.

When Mark woke up this morning, it was pouring down rain--not ideal conditions for running thirteen miles next to a major road. Nevertheless, he woke up, got dressed and headed down to the school to see if anyone else would show up. No one did so the run was off, or so I found out by phone call from the gas station. I almost asked him to run in to McDonald's and pick up some breakfast but Mark had an idea of his own.

"I think I'd like to make pancakes," he said.

I thought it was a great idea. So Mark swung over to the grocery store to pick up the necessary items. Later, he told me that he had to ask someone where to find the baking powder but the shopping trip was a success and then it was home to make pancakes.

I have to say that Mark takes care of more than his fair share of housework around here. He's an ace at the laundry and has taken on the role of clothes washer. He's also great at vacuuming and picking up. But cooking is not his forte. I do all of the cooking in the house so the fact that he even wanted to make pancakes was exciting in itself.

Drew and I headed downstairs when Mark got home and I sat in the kitchen cutting out coupons as he worked on making "supreme" pancakes. I would say that a good word to describe Mark would be precise and that trait more than came out in his pancake cooking. Mark measured and double measured everything. He picked out the perfect utensils and the perfect pan, used just the right amount of butter and set the burner at the perfect temperature. And soon, fluffy--and well analyzed--pancakes started to come off the stove.

Drew and I sat at the table and ate away. There were a lot of "mmmmm's" coming from Drew and I seconded his happiness. They were light and airy pancakes with just the right amount of sweetness. Mark's cooking was a success.

Somewhere in the middle of the cooking, Drew walked into the kitchen and Mark scooped him up with a hug. "I'm glad you liked my pancakes. You'll never know how much this means to me until one day when you're a dad."

And then it hit me. Every time Mark eats pancakes, he always talks about how his dad used to make pancakes. I think that the memory of his father standing over the stove making pancakes first thing in the morning is one of Mark's favorite. It's something tangible that he can hold on to--something he can still almost taste. That's why he was working so hard to make his own pancakes perfect.

Mark's father lost his battle to liver/lung cancer almost seven years ago and he is still missed. I think it's even a little harder for Mark during this time of the year since the anniversary of his death is just around the corner. That, added to the fact that we just celebrated Drew's birthday (the only grandchild Reynolds never met and the only one to carry his name) makes it a time when Mark lives with his memories and tries to find ways to honor his father.

So this morning we had pancakes, but it was so much more than that. Today we celebrated a tribute to one of the greatest men that I've ever met. We also continued a tradition of fathers, sons and pancakes--one that I hope my own son will pass down to his own children.

Sometimes things as simple as pancakes are so much more involved.

Would You Like Fries With Your Parenting?

2008-09-24T15:01:00.002-04:00

Last Thursday, I took the morning off of work because Drew had a doctor's appointment. Since school has started back up, I haven't seen as much of him as I would like and I've been kind of feeling guilty about this. So, to make up for my own guilt, I decided that I would take him to Mc Donald's for breakfast before we had to be at the doctor's.

Like any normal disaster, things started out status quo. Before we got out of the car, he got the standard lecture about listening to what I said and if he didn't stay right next to me, we'd leave without eating. He nodded, said "yes ma'am", grabbed my hand and we were off. Drew politely asked the woman behind the register for a kid's pancake meal, I got my sausage biscuit, and we sat down.

And then he opened his toy. It was the same Joker helicopter that we got last week. That didn't go over well. I don't know what it is but getting the same Happy Meal toy twice in a row causes some kids to go into this fit of rage. My kid is one of those kids. All of the sudden, my sweetness and light son turned into the spawn of satan, horns and all. It started with a whine that turned into an "I want my daddy" plea (like Mark could have done anything about it) and then that turned into an all out cry complete with kicking--but no tears mind you.

Like most Golden Arches, the one by us is senior citizen city during the morning hours. So, of course, there were tables upon tables of the geriatric set who were watching us. When that happens, mom's immediately go on the defensive. In hindsight, I should have picked up the food, tossed it in the trash, put Drew under my arm football style, and marched out of the restaurant. But I didn't. My mistake. Instead, I told him that if he didn't stop crying, we were leaving which didn't cause much of a reaction until I started packing up the food, and then he quieted down. Crisis diverted. Yeah right. My life could be so easy.

With Drew calmed down, I was finally free to get straws and napkins. I set off to do that and he followed me because most of the time this is his job. Frankly, I'd rather have him help than scream anyway so I thanked him for helping, handed him our stuff and we set off back to the booth.

Once we were back, Drew, climbed up onto the plastic seat and stood on it. I asked him politely to sit down and scoot over and I think he tried to do both maneuvers at once because as he sat, he slipped off of the chair, fell below the table, and hit his head on the metal bar underneath. His head made a deafening CLONG noise that echoed throughout the restaurant much like an empty bell. Everyone heard it. How do I know this? Because the whole restaurant stopped talking at that exact moment so that they could turn to look at the mom/son freak circus. As soon as the resonance of his head ended, deafening scream took over and the silence from everyone else continued.

Quickly, I scooped him up into my arms and cradled him close to me, trying to soothe away the tears. Didn't work. He just kept on crying and crying while all of the elderly ladies continued to look at me with their mouths open. I could be wrong but I think they were judging me. Hell, I KNOW they were judging me. That's what old ladies do. I also think that if any of them had cell phones, they had a finger on speed dial waiting to call DHHR, and also waiting to see if I was going to shoot up with heroine right there in the booth or give Drew a pair of scissors to run around the store with. I am not kidding.

Having had enough of the stare-a-thon, I scooped up Drew and took him into the bathroom where I looked at his head and gave him kisses and cuddles. When he was calmed down, I went to the handicapped stall and called Mark, looking for some encouragement.

"Drew just fell and hit his head." I was barely holding back the tears.

"Is he okay?" I could hear Mark stop his work to listen.

Now the flood happens. "Yes but now all of the old ladies are staring at us and they're judging me!"

I'm pretty sure Mark laughed here and told me to get a grip, which I did. Drew and I both dried our eyes. We went back to the booth and enjoyed our now cold breakfast without another catastrophe. And if the old ladies were looking at me, I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of looking back. The fact of the matter is that they were probably once mothers of a young child too and now they look back with rose colored glasses on the experience when, in reality, they were most likely just like me--trying to do the best I can.

Before Drew, there were many days when Mark and I would be in a restaurant with friends and we'd hear a child crying or screaming. ALWAYS, ALWAYS without exception, someone at the table would say something about how annoying that was and how only well behaved children should be allowed to eat out. Well, boy have my own words come back to bite me in the butt. Most of the time I have a well behaved child but sometimes he isn't. Sometimes, it's because he's grumpy, sometimes it's because he's hurt or sick, and on rare occasions (like at Mc Donald's) it's both.

And while I'm not going to allow Drew to scream or act up for too long, people have to be understanding if it occurs for a moment. Out of all of the things I've done in my life, (undergraduate and Master's degree included) raising my son is the hardest endeavour that I've ever taken on. He's hard headed like me and he can dig his heels in the sand just as hard as I can.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that people are so quick to judge when they should back off for just a second. I am no longer the first person pointing a finger at the mom with the screaming child in Food Lion. That's not to say that I've never done it at all because I have when the situation presents itself as such.

Parenting is hard work. There are successes and failures and so many times, the failures are in the open for the whole world to see. For me, that's the hardest part. I don't like to fail--not for me and especially not for Drew.

Word Power

2008-09-23T20:00:00.006-04:00

I have a love affair with words. Yes, I know that's silly but it's the way it's always been. I love words written on paper, the walls, or in the sky. I love words recorded in books and I especially love it when they are spoken in whipsers, yells or echoes. I love eloquent words but trashy ones are just as nice. I just love words.

When I was a freshman in college, my English 101 professor told all of us that we needed a brand spanking new Meriam Webster's dictionary. Like all of the other green college newbies, I ran out to buy one, not realizing that I dropped thirty bucks that could have been used for pizza on a book that weighed too much to carry in my backpack. Furthermore, I never even cracked that puppy...for class that is. Instead, what happened was something straight out of Say Anything. Like the nerdy, stuck up Diane character, I began keep track of words that I looked up. Sometimes they were for other college classes. sometimes it was things that I heard but didn't understand and sometimes...it was just for fun. A few years later, I flipped through that red beauty and noticed all of the check marks by all of the glorious words. Ahhh, how wonderful.

Whether they admit it or not, everyone has favorite words or phrases. For my friend, Sarah, they have always been shed, doily, and balls. Maybe it's because you have no choice but to laugh as those words come out of your mouth. They feel funny as you say them, like a tickle against your tongue. My favorites are sanctimonious and acquiesse. Say them and they seem to go on forever, the "s" sound trailing on and on like the smoke of a jet engine.

For every favorite, there must also be a word or a phrase that makes one's skin cringe. One summer, I met a girl who didn't like any word that ended in "uck". She said they made her feel dirty all over. I thought that it was just plain funny that words could bother her that much until I met my own word nemisis.

We were at Mark's cousin's house in Pennsylvania for the weekend. In the morning, we woke up and the two of them started eating bagels and talking about how wonderful they were.

His cousin rips into a big hunk of bagel smeared with cream cheese and he says, "You know, sometimes a good bagel just hits the spot."

No I know that I must have heard that phrase uttered before that moment and it must have just gone right over me like nothing. But this time, this moment, those words "hits the spot" caused me to bristle and then cringe. In fact, those words still have that same effect on me today. If you think about it, "hits the spot" really doesn't make sense. I mean, is there a little spot in your stomach set aside for special things like bagels or other food items? Does the food travel down your esophagus and into your stomach landing on just that spot and everything in the world is perfect if for no more than a moment? I just don't get it.

When I was doing college, I worked at Pizza Hut as a waitress. While I was there, the breadsticks were described as "piping hot". I guess that's a nice descriptive way to explain the breadsticks. What drove me crazy was when I'd be taking someone's order and they'd say, "We'd like the piping hot breadsticks, please."

The sarcastic part of me always wanted to come back with comments like, "You mean you won't eat them if they're freezing cold?" or "How about we just send out a pan of the dough?" Plus, what does piping hot actually mean? Are those little ringlets of steam called pipes? Why not just say steaming hot? I'd rather see the breadsticks described as buttery, chewy and crusty than piping hot. Once again, I just don't get it.

So instead of thinking of things like "hits the spot" or "piping hot", I'd rather concentrate on other words such as plethora or philharmonic and phrases like "it is what it is". Everyone has their trigger and mine is words.

A Fan of the Nerd Herd

2008-09-13T20:47:00.006-04:00

I got married at the ripe age of twenty and I have been married for thirteen years now. I think that for the most part, I have a productive and happy marriage. I also think that it's important that I start with that statement before I write this.

It's fair to say that every woman in the world is attracted to handsome guys. Call it nature, nurture or just plain lust but there's just something hot about a nice set of abs and a tush that is tight enough to bounce a quarter off of. I don't care if we're talking a young stud in his twenties (Jake Gyllenhal) or--my personal favorite--a man who's aged like fine wine (Patrick Dempsey), handsome is hot. He can be polished and poised (think Brad Pitt) or rugged and ruddy (hello Rick Schroeder).

But I submit to you that perhaps there is another kind of hot--an overlooked hot. Perhaps there is another kind of guy that is attractive in an unusually eclectic way. I believe that a highly ignored breed of men that more women need to pursue is the nerd. I know I know, the pocket protector sounds so unappealing and I've been very vocal on my feelings of Dungeons and Dragons but there's so much untapped potential in nerdy guys. Plus, when you hook yourself to a smart, educated, thinker, you don't have to worry as much about having to bust your own butt to make ends meet. Love becomes a partnership. Hunky meat heads who don't have two brain cells to rub together may be nice eye candy can't offer you the security that a cute nerd can.

I think I've always had a penchant for nerds. It wasn't something that did purposefully but something that just seemed happen. Case in point--my first boyfriend kept a copy of Gray's Anatomy by his bed and read it every night before going to sleep. Personally, I think that a book on the human anatomy would bore me to sleep every time but he was fascinated by all of the diagrams and the information. That's not normal at fifteen. That's nerdy.

When I was in the eighth or ninth grade, I became a huge Star Trek the Next Generation fan. It wasn't because I was interested in science fiction because I could care less. What I was interested in was Wesley Crusher. The secondary character played by Wil Wheaton became a little bit of an obsession to me. Why is that? I think because Wesley--and the actor Wil--were both card carrying and self professed nerds. I'd watch him with his perfectly coiffed hair and skinny body and think "Wow, he's so great." Gag.

I still keep up with Wil Wheaton. He's still a nerd and he keeps a blog of his own. It's found at http://www.wilwheaton.net/ and he's admitted several times that he is of the nerd persuasion. In fact last week there was a picture of him playing--you guessed it--Dungeons and Dragons! NERD. I love it! I commented on something he wrote a few years ago and he actually wrote me two emails back. They're still in my inbox. Kind of cool.

So how does Mark fit into all of this? My husband goes on a sixteen mile bike ride every day for lunch and then comes home and runs in the evenings. Let me tell you, he has the sexiest legs I've ever seen on a man and his butt is pretty cute too. I guess he's a second generation jock but he doesn't care to watch it on TV--unless it's running or a triathlon and those barely ever play. What would he rather do in his free time? Make Excel spreadsheets and play video games. And--get this--when he was in college, he played DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS with his friends! I married a nerd and I love it!

So there you have it people. Nerds rule the world. Ask Bill Gates and he'll tell you the same thing. Looks fade but brains are there forever.

I do love me some nerd.

The Problem With Bookstores

2008-09-09T10:58:00.009-04:00

I love bookstores. Be it a mom and pop establishment, a giant chain book-o-rama, or used book nook, I love the way they smell, how they are organized, and the fact that I feel so at home amongst all of those pages. I could hang out at a bookstore the way that other people hang out at parks--all day, every day. I also love how there are all of those different genres of books, all at home in their respective bookshelves waiting to be opened and browsed.

As with everything else in life, there is an area in the bookstore that must be avoided all costs. In school, people tried to avoid the principal's office and most people try to avoid the dentist's drill. With the same vim and vigor, it is advisable to avoid the Occult section of the bookstore.

Now you may be asking, "Margee, why would anyone want to go to the Occult section anyway?" I often aksed myself the same question until I got dragged there by a friend who shall remain nameless (she knows who she is). I guess that this is where all of the ghost stories are shelved. But wait, that's not all! Oh there's so much more.

On my first venture into the Occult section, I stood next to my bookstore buddy, a little intimidated by what could be on the shelves. My friend was happily picking up books on vampires and ghosts, flipping through the pages and making a pile of the ones that caught her eye. I, on the other hand, was afraid to touch anything lest evil spirits would fly out of the pages and take over my soul. Blame it on my Catholic upbringing but I had no interest in an exorcism nor was I interested in being sent into hell because I happened to look at unsavory reading material. Little did I know that hell was only half of my worries.

To put it nicely, the Occult section attracts some very interesting characters. I learned very quickly that book buddy and I weren't wearing enough black nor did we have the ample earrings, tattoos, or creepiness to be hanging out where we were. We were very much fishes out of water--me WAY more than her. Now I have to say that I am a very accepting person who went through a fruitful black period so I am not judgemental over the clothing--just the beliefs.

As she is looking and I'm going to my own mental happy place, this person (not as much Goth as D&D) gets closer and closer to us. He keeps looking at the books that my friend is picking up. AND THEN, he starts to talk to her though it's not any normal conversation. He's asking her about these crazy questions about her beliefs. What really blew my mind is when he picked up a book called The Necronomican" and asked her if she had read it. I know enough to know that it's an evil book and that if this was flirting, it was wrong. making excuses for both of us, I pulled her out of the bad book section--and ultimately out of the store.

Is that the end? NO. You'd think that I would've learned my lesson the first time but I didn't. I got dragged into a different store's Occult section and once again, I was so not at home. Once again, she's looking and I'm trying not to go to hell. And once again, a D&D nerd approaches but this one decides to talk to both of us.

"Do you know where the local coven is?" Not even a "hey how ya doin?" Do I know where the coven is? I don't think so but I can show you to a really nice church where we can sprinkle you with holy water and pray for your soul you crazy lunatic! Even though I wanted to say that, we told him no, Book Buddy promptly picked up her devil books, and we hot footed it out of there before he asked us if we knew how to sacrifice kitties.

That was the last time that I went to Occult section with my book friend. Instead, I stand in the Human Sexuality section which seems to be very close to the devil books. I still don't touch, but for a WHOLE new set of reasons (yuck) and the other people in that area seem to still be D&D nerds but at least they don't talk to me and at least I'm not going to hell by association.

Give me the Chick Lit and Classics section any day of the week. But, I guess the sex books are a close second.

Things that Go Bump in the Night

2008-09-08T19:55:00.005-04:00

I am a voracious reader. Gimme a good book, a hot bath and a glass of tea and I am set for a long time. Even though I've been stuck on Chick Lit (Hello! It's all escapism and no thinking! What more could a working mom want?), I'll read just about anything. Be it fiction, nonfiction, romance or mystery, I love books.

More than that I love authors. If I find someone that I like, I'll read everything that they have ever written and then I'll be chomping at the bit for something more. Right now one of my poisons is anything written by Lauren Weisberger. She's done three books now and I've purchased all three of them the moment I saw them in the store. The other big one for me has the girls who wrote The Nanny Diaries. They also did a little ditty called Dedication which is hilarious and also a non thinking book.

While I have all of these authors and books that I love, there is one that I loathe. Though I admit that he is talented at spinning a tale and I wish that I had half of his story writing ability, I abhor Stephen King. What's really funny about this statement is that the man penned two stories that turned into two of my favorite movies. Stand By Me is the quintessential coming of age story and The Shaw shank Redemption is an act of sheer genius. But it's the other stuff. Stephen King has ruined so many things for me.

I'm not sure how many of you watched The Storm of the Century but every time that the devil comes into the church, all of the children start singing "I'm a little teapot." Harmless enough right? I thought so too until one day about eight or nine years ago when I walked into a first grade classroom only to find all twenty five of the little sweethearts sitting cross legged on the ground chant/singing "I'm a little teapot." I literally turned around and walked out of the door due to certain fear that Satan himself was going to rise out of the big book holder and attack every adult in the room. If only you could have seen their little faces.

Another time, I was lucky enough to get to stay at the Greenbriar for a conference. From the moment we pulled up to the place (in the county car no less, which was also scary) it was already creepy. I guess any place that is built over a government bunker is going to be naturally creepy to start with but as we walked around, the repeating patterns on the wallpaper and the floors really reminded me of The Shining. I walked around all weekend looking for scary twins and saying, "redrum, redrum" over and over again. Thank you, Stephen King, for putting a damper on my only experience with decadence (okay, maybe I've been there three times since then but still).

Speaking of The Shining, I am amazed at the differences between the Stanley Kubrick movie and the actual book. The biggie for me is the maze versus the topiaries. In the Kubrick movie, there is a maze of hedges that is possessed and does all kinds of weird things. The book has topiaries that come to life. Is one scarier than the other? Nope. Both scary. I've been in those corn mazes before and I'm sure that I'm going to get sucked in. Topiaries? There's something totally wrong about bushes cut into the shapes of animals. What's even more wrong is when we were in Disney World with friends and they found a MOVING TOPIARY. Eek.

I could list more and more things--antique shops, St. Bernards, female writers with cabins in the woods--but I'd be up all night. Stephen King is a sick and twisted man who makes nightmares come true.

He's also one of the biggest benefactors of Maine. While Mark and I were in Augusta a few years ago, two things really stood out. One was how much the state capital looked like Morgantown, West Virginia and the other was how nice the boogie man could actually be. It seems that the week before our visit, Stephen and his wife were walking through a park in Bangor. He noticed the absence of a pool and donated money in the memory of his neighbor to build a community swimming area--not that I'd stick my pinky toe in that water!

I would have to say that Stephen King is the one writer that I love to hate. I'm amazed by his work and yet slightly frightened by what he comes up with. Who has ideas like that in their heads? Not me...except when he puts them there. So for now, there will be no King books in our house. There won't be any topiaries either. And while we promote the singing of nursery rhymes and songs in our house, there's one that my son doesn't know. Would you like to venture a guess?

That's right. I'm a little teapot. I can't risk it.

Side note: while writing this, the lights went out. How did he know that I was writing about him?!?

Paris and Magz

2008-09-04T19:44:00.004-04:00

I have a confession to make: I have an addiction. Since the age of fourteen, I have been (and probably always will be) a closet New Kids on the Block fan. Yes, I have a major thing for the five guys from Boston and I am more than overjoyed that they have gotten back together. Okay, maybe the music is heavy in the cheese department but it's catchy, easy to dance to and, like fine wine, the eye candy has only gotten more refined over the years, if you know what I mean (wink wink).

I have to admit that when I saw NKTOB on the Today show a few days ago, I was a tad bit nostalgic. Their music is connected to so many memories from my early teen age years. More than that, I have New Kids on the Block to thank for the friendship that has defined my life.

Her name is Kandy or Kandace, but for years she was Paris. As with everything else in those years, the name was given to her by a boy (I think his name was Mike) and I'm sure he doesn't even know that he did it. The exact series of events are a little foggy these days but what I still remember is that Kandy had this barrette with clocks on it and she was wearing it one day at Our Lady of Impending Death. Mike (that's what I'm remembering so that's what I'm calling him) walked up to her and touched a spot on the middle clock that said "Paris." Then, he says, "Paris. Is that your name? Paris?" and walks off. Well, you're fourteen and a hot older guy calls you something, then hell yeah, that's your name.

So, for many years after that moment, she became Paris. For reasons just as complicated and not related to this train of thought, I became Magz. And, because of a series of long bus rides home from basketball games in the middle of the night where we shared a pair of head phones and the Hangin Tough CD, we became VERY BIG New Kids on the Block fans. More than that, we became Paris and Magz, BFF.

I'd say for a good solid two years, Paris and I would spend sleepless nights just talking and listening to NKTOB. Sometimes it would be in my room which was plastered with Joe Mc Intyre pictures. Sometimes we would be in her room which was usually an homage to Donnie Wahlberg but every once in a while was a shrine to one of the Knight brothers. When we weren't together, we were on the phone. When I was alone, I felt like a piece of me was missing.

Though the depth of our friendship is dierectly linked to pop music, it evolved into so much more. Kandy became my secret keeper and I'd like to think that I was hers too. We talked about boys (the Langan brothers) and when we had to listen to a third friend tell us in great detail about how she kissed my first real crush in his Geo Metro while listening to "Ask Me" by the Smiths, I know she felt my pain. How could she not since I had felt hers in so many of the same situations.

I left Michigan in the tenth grade and moved to West Virginia. The hardest part of leaving was saying good bye to Kandy. She made me a big sign that said "Magz and Paris BFF's" and some other things that I cannot write here. It was covered with pictures of us and of our boys. It hung on my wall for years and I still have it. During those first few years, I also had a huge phone bill because I would talk to her at least three or four times a week.

After high school, Kandy moved to North Carolina for college and we still talked almost every day. Later on, she was maid of honor in my wedding and I helped her pick out the dress for her own. I also cried on the phone when she told me she eloped because I really wanted to be there.

Today, Kandy is the mother of a daughter named Jordyn. She swears up and down that the girl is not named after Jordan Knight but I have my doubts. Later on this month she will have another daughter and though she says her name will be Carly, I'm thinking that there will be a last minute change to Donnie. (DON'T DO IT, KANDY!).

Since both of us are busy with careers, husbands and children, the phone calls have all but ended. We rely heavy on email but even that is few and far between. It doesn't matter though because I know that our friendship has spanned almost twenty years now and it won't end. If I needed anything, I know that I could call her up and it would happen. I hope she knows the same thing.

On that Today Show appearance, Matt Lauer asked Donnie how it felt to reconnect with his bandmates. Donnie said something to the fact that it wasn't hard. He said that what was interesting was that many friends were reconnecting because of their music. I had to smile because I knew what he was talking about.

Even though we've grown up, somewhere there will always be a Paris and Magz. I like it that way.

Bread crumbs

2008-09-01T16:34:00.003-04:00

This is the first time that I have had to come back to edit what I have written. The original post is now gone. It just caused too many problems for me. I think that everyone misconstrued what I had said to mean something totally different. This was not a post about my husband but about me so people can stop calling him or printing off copies. He knew it was there anyway. Enough said.

Mommy Rider

2008-08-31T19:45:00.004-04:00

One day, out of shear boredom (trust me, that doesn't come often enough), I got on the Smoking Gun website. For anyone who hasn't been there, the Smoking Gun has all of this information about celebrity mishaps with the law and other great time wasters. My favorite little gem on the page is a list of celebrity riders. In case you don't know, a rider is this document that singers and other performers send to venues before they perform. Most of the information on them is about lighting and stage setup but there's always a list of requests for the artist themselves.

Since most of these people think that world revolves completely and solely around them, the list of things on these riders can be hilarious. For instance, the rapper 50 Cent wants arenas to break a trade embargo so that he can have a box of Cuban cigars and Jennifer Lopez needs a white room with Diptyque candles and white flowers. Also--and this one is my favorite-- Luciano Pavarotti famously asked for soft white toilet paper, sofas on risers, and a totally dark hotel room with a sturdy headboard. Wow! that's all I can say. There are tons of lists that include some practical things and some way off in left field requests. The most interesting thing to me is that they get to make these requests.

So that got me thinking. What if I were important enough to have a list of my own demands. What if I could have my very own rider. What would I put on there? I think that it would look something like this (Please note that my rider also has some explanations of why I need these things and is more like an essay than a real rider. I am, after all, not a lawyer and cannot write in legalise):

1. One plain tube of Burt's Bees Lip Balm and One tube of Watermelon tinted lip balm. Let me just say that I think that Burt should be awarded with a Nobel Prize for his gifts to humanity. The man and his bees are absolute genius. My lips are almost always chapped and for a long time I used Kiehl's, which is hard to come by in BFE. When I tried Burt's Bees, I loved the fact that my lips tingled. The best part is that it comes in a color so I can have healthy lips and still be stylish. I am forever indebted to Burt, the big wonderful free thinker that he is.

2. A wide array of loose teas from single estate tea farms. Yes, I am a tea snob. Lipton or Nestea doesn't pass by these lips. Instead, I drink mostly white and oolong that is not in a bag.

3. A housekeeper. I'm part of a working couple and all three of us are dirty people. That would really give us more time to be together.

4. XM Radio. I have to have some variety in my music.

5. A Yearly vacation to Disney World

6. One date night a month. Nothing fancy, just a dinner (even to McDonalds. I haven't had a date in at least six months, maybe longer. Beggars can't be choosers.)

7. One quiet night a week

8. A giant bath tub with smelly candles and bubble bath. I have no need for Diptyque. Cheap Dollar Store will do.

So there ya have it. No need for Cuban cigars or lilies. Just peace and quiet and lipbalm. Still, I have this feeling that it's too much to ask for.

Laissez Les Bon Temp Roulier

2008-08-30T22:09:00.004-04:00

In February of 2004, I spent a week at the Hyatt Regency in New Orleans. I was there to pick up an award for my school and to attend a conference that was occurring at the conference center. While we were there, Mark and I walked around the Superdome a few times and frequented the French Quarter. We dined at the Court of the Two Sisters and took a ghost tour that was more history than ghosts and we stood on the duelling stars in the middle of Jackson's Square. I have to say that that was one of the most interesting weeks of my life.

At six weeks pregnant, New Orleans was not really a good place for me to be. The Big Easy is a place of excitement. It is full of sounds and characters, of food and smells--the latter part of the equation really did me in. The smell of Andouille sausage made me naucous and the taste of anything Creole caused me to toss my cookies. And don't ever get me started on Bourbon Street. That whole area smelled like urine. I didn't spend long there. The barfing made New Orleans a miserable experience.

It's funny how even in all of that sickness, I found an appreciation for that city. I never realized that it had burned to the ground twice (and that both of the fires started at the same location). I think that that adds to the ruggedness of the place. The other stories, legends, and cultures just add to the unique vibe that is only New Orleans.

More than that, New Orleans is the people. It's the Buskers who sing and pose for money. It's the fortune tellers on one side of Jackson Square and the sidewalk muralists on the other side. It's the mix of voodoo and strong Catholic roots with a touch jazz and a lot of soul. This is what makes New Orleans so unique and memorable.

I have to say that even though I always thought that the French Quarter needed a good washing, I was saddened when Katrina hit in 2005. It hadn't even been a year since our trip and as I watched the scenes unfolding on television, I felt so much empathy for those people. In this case, I had truly been there--I had driven across bridges where people were now camping, I had slept in the hotel that was now the headquarters for the mayor, I had walked around the Superdome and been inside the convention center where so many people had died. In all of those images, I saw these places that I knew, but it was not the reality that existed when I was there.

Since I am an emotional person, it was hard for me not to connect the tragedy with people and places. I wondered if the homeless performer who sang Otis Redding made it out alive. I couldn't help thinking about the doll store on one of the corners and wondering if it got flooded. (Side note--that store may have been one of the scariest places that I have ever been in in my life. All of the dolls looked like they should have been alive. I couldn't help thinking that I was in some Ray Bradbury story where voodoo was used to turn people into porcelain.) I thought about the gentleman who gave us the ghost tour and told us so much about the macabre history of New Orleans. I also hoped that the table was still set for the ghosts in the front window of Muriels.

Then, like so many times before, NOLA began to rise again. The work was slow--too slow--but the people there are ruddy people and the bulk of them were willing to stay and to try to make a go of a bad situation even when they didn't get the help they deserved. I prayed for those people and sent money to help. I cried for the city that had been destroyed.

Now that Hurricane Gustav--the fact that it is a storm with a French name is not lost on me--quickly approaches the still vulnerable city, I can't think about how terribly unfair all of this is. New Orleans is still picking up the pieces after Katrina. They are just now pulling it together--slowly and surely. Now, to have this new hurricane coming onto shore almost three years exactly from the last one is just unthinkable. I can't believe that it's happening and I am once again hurting for those people, that city, and the remarkable history.

But, if New Orleans lives up to it's history, it will once again be the diamond in the rough that it always has been. After all, we're talking about a city who has risen out of it's own ashes more times than can be counted. We're talking about a city who has mixed so many cultures, religions and beliefs into a workable mold. This is a place that has had so many tragedies and has come out of them so many times before. What's one more unfair and unjust fight?

My heart cries out for the people of the Big Easy and my prayers are with them as another big storm rolls in. But what I hope, and what I know is that some time in the future, the good times will roll in New Orleans once again. The debauchery and the mayhem will return and the good people in the French Quarter will once again be greasing the poles to their porches during Mardi Gras.

It will happen.

Go To My Happy Place

2008-08-29T23:21:00.002-04:00

Starting a new school year is like going from 0 to 60 in five seconds flat. One minute you're home doing your thing, and the next, you're ripping kids from the ceiling. During this time of the year, I always feel overwhelmed, dazed, confused, and frustrated. Every teacher has a way to cope. Mine is to think of other things--happy things--things that aren't terrorizing my mind. Here's a few:
1. That beach in Acadia State Park that rattles when the waves come in.
2. Retirement
3. Snow days
4. Disney World
5. Pomegranate Jelly Belly jelly beans
6. Being a Walmart Greeter
7. tea
I need to get a longer list.

The Name Game

2008-08-11T20:37:00.002-04:00

I have had names picked out for my kids since I was about 17. Since I was sure that I would be fruitful, I thought that it would be necessary for me to have six names. They went something like this: Drew, Justice, and Leif for boys and Molly, Skye and Kiya for girls. Now as I got older, I came to my senses. I would probably only have two children--a boy and a girl--so I threw out the oats and granola names and stuck with Drew and Molly.

So some ten years after getting married, when Mark and I found out that we were having a boy, we knew right away that his name would be Drew. The middle name was changed somewhere in there from Orion (the only constellation that I can find) to Mark's dad's name. There would be no fighting or negotiating. All of that was done.

When Drew was born, he even looked like a Drew. It was like he agreed with his name. Along with the instant name of Drew came the instant nickname of bear. I think it was the way he cuddled into my neck coupled with the present of three chairs from my father that brought that about. So Drew has always been Drew and he's always been bear.

About a month after he was born, I took him to school so that all of the kids could see him--from FAR FAR away--at the October celebration. I spent most of that time in my room with my substitute and her daughter who was also visiting. When she looked at Drew, she had a new name--Drewby. And for some reason, that one has stuck too. It's a nice term of endearment and Drew sometimes even calls himself Drewby. Now, this little nickname is going to have to end WAAAAY before middle school. No eleven year old wants to be called Drewby.

I guess with all of these other names, I shouldn't be at all surprised when my son came to me and told me that he was no longer named Drew. I smiled. "Oh yeah? What's your name?"
I was expecting Drewby or even Bear.

"Call me Pochi," he said said in all seriousness.

That one's not on my list but boy did I get a good laugh. I don't think we're going to be changing the birth certificate any time soon.

Olympic Training

2008-08-10T11:03:00.002-04:00

Every high school student is required to have at least one year of Physical Education--or at least that was the rule when I was in school. For me, gym class happened freshman year when I was a student at Anchor Bay High School in Chesterfield Michigan. Though I don't remember his name whole name, I do remember that my gym teacher's name began with a G and it was a combined class so that there was both a female and a male teacher. I can say that I loathed gym. I really wish that I hadn't. Perhaps if I was allowed to take a modern dance class or something I would have excelled. But, at sports involving balls (and trust me, most sports do) I sucked.

But, every day, I'd walk into the gym, find my locker, and get changed for class--which was an ordeal in and of itself. You see, each gym class had 4 TA's. the ones in my class just happened to be the captain of the football team, two of his buff cronies, and the co-captain of the soccer team. To freshman girls, these guys were mini-gods and we were all out to impress. So dressing for gym included freshening make up, re-spraying hair, and dressing in body hugging spandex shorts. I'm not sure if all gym classes are like daily fashion shows, but mine sure was.

Then after we were all dolled up, everyone met out on the gym floor for warm up and torture--I mean games. For the life of me, I was never quite sure why I needed to know how to play Frisbee golf or floor hockey but those games were some of the least perplexing of the ball torture that I endured.

Those were nothing compared to German Punchball. The game includes bases that are much like those found in kickball or baseball. Of course, since the name is punchBALL, there was a ball involved. This one was a large, over sized kickball that seemed to weigh at least ten pounds. The person who is "up", stands at home base with an over sized bat and when the ball comes pouncing toward their head, they try in earnest to swing the massive bat before becoming beheaded. I was not very good at this game, maybe because I always tried to swing the bat with my eyes closed.

I've spent all of these years, thinking about why I was put through this torture and I finally found my answer. Yesterday I woke up, and turned on MSNBC to check out some of the Olympic games. There, on the screen, was a goal, much like a soccer goal, and two teams of woman, running around with a ball.

Mark sat up and put on his glasses. "What in the world are they doing?" He said as he watched a girl bounce the ball once and then throw it at the goal.

I didn't even think about the answer. "It's handball." And then I went through a brief tutorial of the rules involved in playing this game.

Mark just stared. "How did you know that?"

And then came my answer. "Oh, I played that in gym class at Anchor Bay."

But that's not the only game I played. I realized that I also knew all of the rules for Olympic regulation badminton (otherwise known as retarded tennis) and volleyball. And then it dawned on me. My gym class wasn't a daily high fashion, ball induced, torture session. It was an Olympic training ground. Mr G. was in search for a great handball team or the next retarded tennis--I mean badminton--star. If only someone would have filled me in before now!

I still haven't seen Olympic German Punchball, but I'm keeping my eyes open.

Amusement Park Snob

2008-08-08T10:51:00.002-04:00

Let me just start this out by saying that I LOVE Disney World. I LOVE IT. I'll be the first to tell you that my affection for the place borders on obsession. I have researched and studied the place with more detail to accuracy than I did any of my college or graduate courses. I know how to move throughout the 40 some square miles of property so well that I can easily tell someone mulitple routes and modes of transportation to get from place to place. I know which restaurants to eat at, which stores carry which toys, and the features and price points of most hotels. That's not including the information I know about the four main theme parks. I feel more comfortable there than in my own town.

I've often told people that if they wanted help or information on planning their Disney World trip, I'd be glad to pitch in. Sadly, besides a few dinin reccomendation and a hotel critique, I've never been given the opportunity to help someone else with their planning. What I do get to do a lot of is listening to people talk about what was wrong with their vacation. I'll always say, "You should have..." and give them the way to eleviate the problem. Most people ask why I didn't tell them this a long time ago. I always say, "You never asked."

I love Disney World. I love it so much that my school bio says that someday I want to retire to Cinderella's Castle. Also, once while playing a game of Questions, someone asked me where I wanted to be buried and I said somewhere on the property of Disney World, in a flying Dumbo. It's sick I know.

Drew is beginning to love Disney just as much as I do. In fact, every night before he goes to bed, he makes me retell one of the rides that we were on during out March/April trip. (I wasn't there for a whole month. We went on that overlapping week. But Holy Cow would I love to stay there for a month!) Since the land of the mouse is so far away--and costly I might add--we decided to take Drew to a different park--Hershey Park.

Let me say that I had a great time. Any time with Drew is usually a great time, but in this circumstance, I think I was expecting a lot more than what we actually got. And it's not that Hershey isn't a great place, I was just holding them to a reall high standard--and it started as soon as we pulled the car onto the property.

Parking at Hershey was a wild goose chase. Nothing is marked well. We kind of just followed the cars ahead of us. There is no marked path to get into the park. Once again, we followed others to the sidewalk and then found our way to the front gates.

Since the park wasn't opened yet, everyone was standing around. It was one big massive blob of humanity. There were no roped of ques. There was no suggestion of lines. Let me tell you, at Disney World, no group is EVER allowed to become a mob. Mobs of people breed mob mentality. That was super evident by the pushing and the shoving when the gates opened. For the life of me, I don't know of any ride that is important enough to run over a three year old. I mean, correct me if I am wrong, but no one inside Hershey Park is handing out anything for free other than chocolate. There's no money, there's no jewels. That means that there's no reason to run like a herd of buffalo.

There was also the aroma of good ole Hershey. Everyone I've ever talked to has told me that you can smell chocolate. It wafts through the air like a magic elixer. Not so. From the moment we got inside the gates, Mark turned his nose up. I did too. It smelled like piss. I might be mistaken but urine and chocolate are not even close on the smell o meter. UGH!

The last big thing on my nit picky list of problems was the Hershey Park employees. At Disney, they are called cast members and every single one of them is inviting and happy--even if it's fake. They smile and go out of their ways to make you feel wanted.

If Disney World is the happiest place on Earth, then Hershey Park must be HELL. No one smiled. Everyone was scowling--a guy at the food court had his head down and was half asleep. At one point, we needed directions on how to get to a ride. We asked an employee who told us she had no clue what we were talking about. HELLO?!? Isn't that her job?

Early on in the day, Drew wanted to go on this little kiddie train. It kind of reminded me of the Silver Spoons train and was driven by one of the employees. The guy looked like someone had sentenced him to lethal injection. He crossed his arms and scowled the whole time. In turn, all of the kids on the ride scowled right along with him.

I turned to Mark and said, "My God, it looks this is the train to Hell. What is wrong with these people?"

I think that's right around the point when Mark said, "Honey, this isn't Disney World."

And I have to agree with him. It wasn't Disney World and I wasn't expecting it to be--really. But would it kill someone to smile at me or to mop up the piss? Really people. I mean, their little jingle is "Hershey Park Happy" right? Shouldn't it start with the employees? They were just Hershey Park sad.

In the end, we had a good time. Drew got chocolate all over his face. We laughed and had fun.

But I can't help counting down until the next time I get to go back to my home away from home. Disney World, here I come.

Don't Leave The Path!

2008-08-07T11:54:00.002-04:00

Water is a touchy subject in our house, especially with our son. He likes to drink water, and he likes to go swimming, but anything other than putting it down his throat or completely submerging him is off limits. He doesn't want to be splashed, squirted, or sprayed. Any time that any of these events happen, he goes off the deep end.

On Monday we were at Hershey Park having a great family day. Since it's August, it was pretty warm outside but not that bad of a day. In the afternoon, my husband decided that he wanted to try one of the roller coasters. Since our son isn't tall enough yet, I decided to take him for a walk (more like a push in his running stroller) in search of more Drew friendly rides.

It started out as a nice peaceful walk. We were looking at roller coasters and talking about things that we saw...until we turned a corner and found ourselves in the Boardwalk section of Hershey Park. This is where all of the water rides are. I didn't think much of this and we continued walking as we talked about the slides.

At one point, there was this sign that said, "Your best bet for not getting wet is to follow the yellow path." I looked down and sure enough, there was a yellow line on the pavement. I directed the stroller onto the path and we moved on. You know, I think that if there's a path, people should be polite enough not to stand and talk in the middle of it. But, that's exactly what was happening in front of us. So, I pushed us outside of the yellow path...and I mean just a teeny weeny bit outside.

It must have the instant that we were on regular pavement that this big gush of water fell out of the sky and right on top of us. After getting over the initial surprise, I thought the water felt good. Drew, not so much. He started screaming and I looked down to make sure that he wasn't melting. I swear, we were out of that yello path for all of two seconds. What luck.

We were both dry by the time Mark was off of the roller coaster and the day continued. I thought that the yellow path debaucle was a thing of the past...until we were on our way home. After supper had been eaten, I looked in the backseat to see arms crossed and eyes glaring. I didn't even have to ask him what was up.

"Mommy, why did you get me wet?" His voice was a growl.

I explained to him that there was someone standing in the dry yellow path so we stepped out and into the other path for just a moment.

"YOu can't do that ever again!" Drew informed me.

Since then, all I've heard is that I got him wet. Not only have I heard it, but anyone who calls the house, anyone at the grocery store, and everyone at school knows about it. I've probably scarred him for life. Now he's going to have a water phobia that will be all my fault.

I guess I should start saving for therapy.

Commando Parenting

2008-08-06T19:35:00.004-04:00

Parenting is an art form. It's something that is cultivated over time. Some people are naturals while some learn while doing. I've always thought that there are two types of parenting styles and this theory was put to the test Tuesday.

We ate at a burger restaurant in Pennsylvania on Monday. We had spent all day at Hershey Park and we were all exhausted and starving. As the three of us made our way to our booth, I noticed a family directly across from us. There was a mom and a dad and two little boys. Everyone was groomed perfectly and they looked like they came directly out of a modern day Norman Rockwell painting. Both children had their own little tote bag that was filled with stickers, crayons, and activity books. Sticking out of "Perfect" mom's purse was a travel sized container of wipes and throughout the meal, she wiped faces, cut meat, and lead songs. She was so June Cleaver.

I call this kind of mother the 4 Star General Mom because they always seem prepared and ready for battle. These are the moms who make organic baby food from scratch and bake whole wheat cupcakes sweetened with grape juice and they always travel with extra--extra snacks, extra shoes, socks and underwear. These are the moms that never allow their children to play with plastic toys or to allow television. The general moms have a plan and they don't deviate for any reason.

I can say that I am not a general mom. I have nothing against them and, in fact, I am a tad bit envous of them but that is not me. I am a commando mom. For me, half of the time there isn't a plan. If there is one, it's sketchy. I fly by the seat of my pants and make it work in whatever situation I'm in. There is no activity pack ready to go. Sometimes we play with what's in the restaurant. Sometimes we grab some cars or animals as we leave.

We went into that restaurant with nothing more than a Hershey Park Chocolate Worker hat and a stuffed animal and I searched for things to entertain all three of us. I had no wipes (that's what my glass of water and a napkin is for). I had no activity book (that's why servers hand out crayons). Sometimes my son eats processed foods but he also likes to eat peaches and broccoli. He likes to watch TV but he also plays with a lot of toys.

Unlike the general moms, I feel like I'm making the plane as it's flying. I don't have all the answers and I don't have a plan but we're going to get there. Sometimes this backfires on me miserably. But what I also find is that I'm developing MacGiver like skills where I can make something out of nothing.

So I salute you, General Moms, and I am jealous of your order. But I'm not the kind of mom to be running things from the sidelines. I'm in the trenches and I'm getting dirty. I'd have it no other way.

Who Do I Want To Be?

2008-08-03T22:36:00.002-04:00

Every year around this time, the same thing happens. As soon as the school supplies are schlepped out to the shelves, I start to question my whole identity. I have been a teacher for eleven years now. For eleven years I've been working with children who have difficulty reading and I can say that, yes, it's a rewarding job. Yes, I'm so noble for doing it. Yes, I make a difference because I teach. I also put in ten to twelve hour days from August to June while only getting paid for seven (and not paid well, by the way). I see a lot of stuff that I can't and won't talk about it and by mid April, my mind is absolutely mush.

The funniest thing about all of this is that I never wanted to be a teacher. Yes, I played school as a kid. Mostly it was with this girl named Rachel who always insisted on teaching math. I also have this recollection of being on a long car trip and organizing coins into "classes". The quarter was the teacher. But other than play, when someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never said that I wanted to be a teacher. I always wanted to be a something slash writer. For instance, it was a paleontologist/writer or a pediatrician/writer. Then it became just a writer.

That dream took a large nose dive when an English teacher told me that my style wasn't formal enough to ever write professionally. I swear that if someone were standing by and listened very closely, they could probably hear my dream catch on fire and flame into a slow death. And what did I do? Did I decide to prove her wrong? Did I decide to let my style be my style? Hell no. I went home and called all of my college choices and abruptly switched my major from journalism and communications to education. Why education? I couldn't tell you why.

All through my college coursework, I questioned my choice. I questioned it even more when I did my student teaching. But instead of thinking of something else to do with my life, I put in applications and God did me a favor. I ended up with a position teaching just reading and writing--the two areas where I rock. And so here I am, going into my eleventh year of doing my thing.

Friday I was watching Oprah when she had on Maria Shriver. She was talking about how stuck she was when she had to quit being a journalist. Maria didn't know what she wanted to be anymore. I couldn't help but think that I've always known what I want to be but I just haven't done it.

I want to be a full fledged writer. I want to write and I want to help other writers. I want to get paid for it and I want that to be my life. Maybe it won't happen over night. Right now I don't have an idea for a book (and trust me, my little baby blog ain't gonna make me any money--part of it is the style :) ).

So here is my pledge to myself--I am going to come up with an idea and an outline in the next two months. From there, we'll see what happens.

Incidentally, my son and I talk a lot about what he's going to do when he grows up. Yes, he's only three but it's never too early to dream. As of right now, we can't decide between a baseball player, a chef and a doctor. I just hope he's happy and he follows his dreams.

My Town USA

2008-08-02T15:58:00.002-04:00

My town has four stoplights. If drive through on a Monday morning and blink, you will miss it. If you try the same drive the day before Thanksgiving, those are the four longest stoplights of your life. Everyone at the Food Lion knows who I am when I walk through the door--maybe that's because this is the only grocery store in town and we are forced to shop there. But, nevertheless, they all say hi and I say hi back. It's pleasant...most of the time.

The thing is, I never wanted to be here, and sometimes I still don't. For the first fifteen years of my life, I lived in a suburb by a lake. I wouldn't say that it was a hopping place but at least there was a K Mart and a mall ten minutes away. It was what I was used to. It was what I knew.

So in 1990, when my parents announced that my father was changing plants and we were moving 500 miles away to West Virginia, I was in shock. That feeling tripled when we actually got here. I will never forget going up this big hill by our house, the car chock full of all of our belongings. My sister and dad were in front of us in the U Haul. When the moving van stalled going up the hill, I turned and looked at my mother.

"It's a sign," I said. "Turn around and take us home. We don't belong here."

That feeling was tripled when my parents left my sister at the house so that they could travel the umpteen million miles it took to get to the Sears. We needed a washing machine and dryer. So my sister and I sat at home by ourselves. The phone had not been turned on yet and this was waaaay before anyone could afford a cell phone. We knew no one and there was no television to watch. It was excruciating to sit in the empty house and just be there with nothing.

In the middle of all of the waiting, a thunderstorm passed over the town. Now, in Michigan, usually thunderstorms mean tornadoes. Both my sister and I were afraid of the storm. In fact, I can remember sitting behind the couch--yes, behind it--as the rain poured and the thunder boomed.

Being the melodramatic person that I was and still am, I said to my sister, "They're dead. They're dead and we're stuck here with no phone and no food. We don't know anyone and we're going to die in this horrible place to."

But of course, no one died and no one went back to Michigan though I threatened every step of the way. I still think of leaving here, but I haven't. Instead, I stay here, living in this Mayberry/Arts and Crafts town. Sometimes I think I'm crazy for not picking up my son and my husband and leaving. Sometimes I know I am.

And then, every once in a while, I know why we're here. This weekend, in addition to going to the County Fair (think 4-H on crack), and sitting next to the town surgeon and then prosecuting attorney for a fireworks display, we went to a good, old fashioned Fireman's Parade. For a good fifteen minutes, the three of us sat on the curb, listening to sirens, catching candy, and waving to fire people. I was certain that at any moment, Andy Griffith would come strutting down the road and I questioned why we were doing this--until I saw the look on my son's face. He was laughing, pointing, and mesmerized by the flashing lights. He kept on telling me how much fun he was having.

That, in and of itself, is worth the torture of living in this four stoplight town. That's worth the 45 minute drive to find clothing. So for now, for as long as there are grandparents in the picture, we will stay in this watered down version of Mayberry. We'll live in our house in the middle of the woods and we'll continue greeting everyone at Food Lion. But I still don't think that we'll be here forever.

Someday I'm breaking out of this place.

Reflection

2008-08-01T16:45:00.002-04:00

Last weekend I attended my fifteen year high school reunion. It was an amazing time where I connected and reconnected with many people from my past. I had an amazing small world moment that I'll write about later but today something else is on my mind. I couldn't help but hear everyone discuss how much they have grown and changed since high school. They were all better and different people since then. I had to agree. Many people had grown--some still haven't--but a lot had hit their stride in their lives.

This made me think about how that time in high school is when so many people are forged like steel. They are burnt and tested, and for that, they become stronger. For some people, this event happens later--in college or careers after high school. For some, I could see that it still hadn't happened. For myself, it happened much earlier. I was forged, tested, burnt, destroyed, and rebuilt at time in my life that helped me to almost be solidified by high school.

When I was going into the fourth grade, the Anchor Bay School District in New Baltimore Michigan went on strike. Well, this did not sit well with my parents. The school district was going through many changes as it was and they wanted me to be somewhere stable. So, in September of 1984 (the year the Tigers won the World Series), I was enrolled at Our Lady of Impending Death.

Okay, that's not the real name of the school but in my eyes, I think it's the most fitting name. For five years, every time I walked into that building, I wanted to die. In fact, I probably would have paid someone to kill me. Dying a thousand painful deaths would have been a million times less painful than what I endured every day.

Over my tenure at the school, I was ridiculed and demeaned by almost every student in my grade--not including the ones directly above and below us. Nothing I wore was right. Nothing I said was right. I didn't live in the right place. I also wasn't healthy enough. What's worse is that this didn't only come from the students but also from the teachers, staff and principal. Sometimes I think that the teachers even fed into some of the student's behaviors.

I must say that the picking started during my fifth grade year. In the fourth grade, I was invisible--a non person. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than being the screw everyone turns. I mean, at least that way people interacted with me. No one interacted with me in the fourth grade. That made lunch--and more importantly, recess--a horrible time for me. It meant one hour of total solitude.

At least at lunch there was something to do. I could intently eat my lunch. I could concentrate on making every bit count. At recess, I watched everyone else play. For thirty minutes, I watched everyone else have fun and I walked. I had my own circuit that amounted to a big box. I would walk up the sidewalk and past all of the playground equipment and then turn left onto the blacktop. I'd walk to the end of the playground and then back toward the school, making a big box. Most days I could do ten or so big boxes before the bell rang. Every once in a while, I'd stop to talk to the nun on playground duty but she always made excuses to walk away from me so I walked by myself.

To this day, I don't think that children of that age are meant to be that quiet and that alone. It does things to them. It forces them to find ways to cope--to find ways to fill the time. At first, I would spend a lot of time thinking about how I would play with my friends, who all went to public school, when I got home. Soon, something happened and it's something that has changed my life.

To fill my time, I started telling myself stories. I started creating characters, places, and events in my head. I began to entertain myself by making my own worlds. I think if I wouldn't have, I would've gone crazy. I'm sure I'm not the only 9 year old that ever thought about committing suicide but I was one of them. So these stories and these places gave me somewhere else to go.

It's funny because I still rely on this. I'm an insomniac and I know that if I start to tell myself a story, I'll be able to lull myself to sleep. If I'm in a crowd of too many people, I mentally work on something that I'm writing because no one can attack me or hurt me if I've pulled inward. It's still how I cope.

I'm not going to say that nothing good ever came out of attending Impending Death. I have one friend who I still keep in touch with. Our friendship really started during the end of our time at the school but it's still precious to me. I also have two people that I try to keep up with by exchanging emails here and there. Other than that, I'd be happy to have the rest of my memories just vanish. Tabula Rasa.

By the time I got to high school, there was no way that anyone could say or do anything that could destroy me more than I already had been. I mean, someone put a plastic rat in my desk. I had heard that I was disgusting and horrible. I had had people who I thought were my friends repeatedly stab me in the back. What could happen in high school that could be any different?

What happened was that I grew. It's taken me fifteen years for me to realize that high school was a healing time for me while everyone else around seemed to feel like they were being remade.

The Scoop on Poop

2008-07-22T10:58:00.002-04:00

When I became a parent, I seemed to gain an immediate understanding that any sort of dignity that I had exited the door as soon as my son was put in my arms. That quickly, any sort of privacy that I had disappeared. Soon after, I learned that no topic was taboo and that even the most normal of bodily functions would be analyzed and discussed.

Take, for instance, poop. I have never been fixated on number two in my life but some four years ago, it became something that I thought about. My husband and started having conversations that went like this:

H: "Has he pooped today?"

M: "Sure did."

H: "Was it a big one or a little one?"

M: "A big one but it was sort of runny."

The most interesting part of this whole thing was that I was naive enough to think that when he reached three or four, the whole poop talk would go away. How sadly wrong I was. Little did I know that as soon as we started potty training, the bathroom conversation would increase tenfold. Now not only were we doing it, but he was too. "Do you have to poop?" "I have to poop." And so on and so on.

One day in the middle of the outlet mall food court, my son stands up on a chair and says, "HEY EVERYONE! I'M POOPING!" That's when I saw the last bit of my dignity hop a train and get the hell out of dodge.

I guess the glimmer of hope that I see is that our poop talks are evolving. Case in point, my son was on the toilet the other day and he yells, "I pooped!" As a mom, it is my job to asess the the situation. Yes indeedy, he did poop. I congratulate him and help with the cleaning up part.

Then he leans over and looks in the bowl. "It's a nice one mommy."

What am I supposed to say here? I agree with him that it's a nice poop and then pat him on the back and get ready to flush. That's when points in the bowl, then looks up at me and says, "If you put a shell on that one, it could be a turtle!"

Thank God I wasn't chewing gum or anything. I laughed so hard that I choked on my own spit.

Way to use your imagination son!

And the poop talk continues

Yo Quiero Diablo

2008-07-20T22:04:00.002-04:00

My birthday and Mother's Day often fall on the same day or very close together. This year, for instance, Sunday was Mother's Day and Monday was my birthday. For me, this basically means that I get a small Christmas smack dab in the middle of May. Bring on the goodies.

I know that many moms want strings of pearls or new vacuums and things like that. I pride myself on being not the conventional mom so there was no request for a Dyson for me. Being the Grade A bookworm that I am, I asked to go to Borders so that I could forgo the mom like jewelry for reading material instead.

That day I picked up three or four juicy little gems to enjoy. I would say that my biggest find wasn't a cookbook or Potty Training for Dummies. Instead, I bought this little ditty about stripping. Now, I'll be the first one to tell you that I am doing the world a favor by keeping my clothes on and my ass at least ten feet away from a pole. Civilization as we know it is better when I am fully dressed. Thank God for all of us then that this was not a how-to.

Candy Girl is a memoir by the one and only Diablo Cody. Before reading this book, I had seen Juno and I thought that she was a genius. That is one of the best written character movies that I have seen in a while. I could only hope that I would be able to create such a wonderful character as Juno who is snarky and witty. I'd also love to come up with such pieces of literary gold as the phrases "pork swords" and "shut your gob". So, when I picked up this book and looked at the cover, I knew instantly that I would get it.

I knew that Diablo Cody had spent a year as a stripper in Minnesota. Frankly, if I were going to take my clothes off (I'm not, but I'm just saying) I wouldn't EVER do it in Minnesota. TNE all the way. But I digress. What I didn't know when I started reading was that someone could write a book about their stripping experiences that could be poignant, hilarious, and gross all at the same time.

Let me tell you, this woman has balls. BIG ONES. In my life, I've only met one woman with this attribute (Julie that's you) and I think that Ms. Cody goes beyond even her. To back up her big ones is so much talent--more than I could ever even hope to receive. Pretty soon, she's going to have a show on Showtime and I'm thinking about cancelling our HBO subscription so we can switch over and watch her genius. This means that I would lose Entourage so I'm still pondering.

Diablo, in case you are reading this, (I know I know. She's not going to read this, but let me pretend, okay?) I just want to say that you are the shit. How you could sit behind a Plexiglas screen and watch a man lick the gizz laden floors of a porn store without tossing your cookies is beyond me but thanks for sharing that moment. It was enlightening. I really hope that you don't sell out and become all fake like Kevin Smith. Way to make it!

I have a new literary hero and it came from the most unlikely place imaginable.

Words to Live By

2008-07-18T23:48:00.002-04:00

At the moment, I don't have the nicest things on my mind. In fact, I'm feeling a little vindictive and hurtful. That's kind of scary because I'm really good at opening my mouth only to later insert my foot. So, while I'm dying to write this whole thing about how I just looked up a guy that I went to grade school with who thought he was better than everyone else on Myspace and found out that he now is a drunk loser who is balding, I won't. I'm better than saying things like "turnabout is fairplay" or discussing divine retribution. Instead, I am cleansing my mind with sayings such as "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." So instead of writing something like "serves you right, douche!" I am choosing to make a list of all of my favorite quotes in history--or at least some of them.

"Walk softly and carry a big stick."
--Theodore Roosevelt
"Pretty is as pretty does."
--My nanny
"We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch--we are going back from whence we came."
--John F. Kennedy
"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."
--John Lennon
"It's much too late to say 'we'll do this now' when we should have done it then but it just goes to show how wrong you can be and how it's never too late to get up and go."
--Robert Smith
"Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks."
--John Donne
"Oh Gordy just screwed the pooch!"
--Stephen King (Which reminds me that I should do movie quotes one day soon.)

Okay, now I think I can go to bed. I will think no more mean thoughts, especially ones about how people who think that they are better than other people and torment them one day receive their justice. Nope. I'm not saying any of those things. Just know that I feel vindicated tonight!

Heart Bubble

2008-07-17T17:12:00.002-04:00

I wear my heart on my sleeve. It's a trait I wish I didn't have. Being exposed--being out there--is a hard place to be. I feel like there's no protection for my feelings when they are out there and on display. Trust me, I've tried to hide them. I've tried to be stone faced and rigid and it doesn't work. When I'm happy, I look happy. When I'm sad, I'm going to burst out in tears wherever I'm standing. Sometimes I feel like a raw nerve standing out in the open. I want that to go away. I want to be protected.

Innocence

2008-05-29T10:20:00.002-04:00

Last Saturday was a breath takingly gorgeous afternoon. I had the pleasure of spending part of it outside, standing on a ridge that overlooks three states. From my vantage point, I could see parts of West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland as well as the Potomac river. Everything was green and luscious. It was a view that was amazing.

We were up on this ridge visiting friends. They put their dream house on 55 acres up on that hill and on this particular day, the three and under set was invited to come over to celebrate their daughter's birthday. We were fortunate enough to accompany our son and I enjoyed the opportunity to stand back and watch him have a ball.

The birthday girl also had a great time since she was surrounded by her friends. One of her gifts was a pair of fairy wings. She quickly slipped them on and declared that she could fly faster than anyone. She began running around the yard, "flying" as fast as she could.

It was around that time that my son found a net. He decided that he needed to catch the fairy and began chasing after her. They were both laughing and giggling. They thought it was hilarious that she couldn't fit in the net but both continued running.

And there, with the beauty of the world all around them, my son and his friend ran and played and giggled. I can't help but wonder if I could have the same freedom if I had wings.

A View of the Skyline

2008-05-23T23:25:00.006-04:00

I've made this statement before but it bears repeating. For the bulk of my childhood, I imagined myself traveling around the globe with my husband by my side and my son strapped to my back. I'd write freelance articles for travel magazines highlighting our journies. As a family, we would hike with Sherpas in the Himalayas and drink yak's milk with Mongolian nomads. It would be a life where my son would be exposed to the world. The globe would be his classroom; the cultures of the world his teachers.

Somewhere between dreaming and doing, part of that dream got lost. Instead of keeping a little apartment in some big city as a resting point, we live in a house set way back in the woods. It's not even visible on Google Earth. Trust me, I've tried.

Only a small inkling of that dream stays alive. I still love to travel and I want my son to love it too. I want him to want to see people and places. I want him to want to travel down the road less traveled looking for adventures that he wouldn't normally have. I want him to soak it all in. It's too bad that it's going to take most of his inheritance to show him anything but that's another post.

I've seen some pretty remarkable things. Not only have I seen a glacier calve and fall into the ocean, I've also sat on the banks of Maine and watched the fishers put out their lobster traps while the water hit the cliffs and sprayed on my face. I've been on top of Cadillac Mountain first thing in the morning when the clouds are lifting. I've braved the Bronx freeway during rush hour traffic and lived to tell about it and I've also seen a porcupine get rescued from being stuck under a building. They were all amazing experiences and they just a few of amny.

I started having these experiences at a young age when my family would just get in the car and drive. I never knew where we'd end up and that was half of the adventure. One thing I could count on was that there would be something beautiful to look at and a story to hold on to for the rest of my life.

I'm always asked why we bother to take our son places. "He's only three (or two, or one, or whatever). He'll never remember." And part of that is true. He won't remember. But because of those trips, I get beautiful pictures like this one. And I also instill a habit in him that I think is just as important as brushing his teeth or eating broccoli. I instill a love for the world.

As for things that we don't remember, I've been told that my momma and poppa took me hiking in the Smoky Mountains when I was three. I don't remember sleeping in the tent and I don't remember being carried in a backpack on my poppa's back. I also don't remember being harnessed and tied to a tree so that I wouldn't wander into the woods. All I have is this story that I've been told time and time again along with some old pictures.

But it's this story and it's the old pictures that warm my heart. I want my son to have these things. And I want to have pictures much like this one to show him.

Pent Up

2008-05-23T17:33:00.002-04:00

I can't help it. I can just feel it running through me. It's this electrical kind of unknowing emotion. It's one of having too many questions to ask and no one to ask them to. It's the feeling of wanting to do something big and not knowing exactly what that big thing is. I'm like a tight balled fist of emotions with nothing to hit and no reason to unfurl.

I hate this feeling...this unknowing, this idea of no direction and no task.

I hate this uneasiness and unsettled feeling that's way down in the pit of my stomach.

And yet I love it.

Mother of the Year

2008-05-23T10:39:00.003-04:00

Yeah if there were any doubts on how out of control I am as a mother, they came to a screeching halt yesterday. I love my son more than anything in the world and I think that he's growing up to be a hilariously inventive and witty child. I think sometimes I help with that and I'm also helping to harness his energy to be used for good and not evil. These are all things that good moms do.

But good moms also bake cookies and make homemade bread. They fry bacon in the morning and sew Halloween costumes. They make yarn pom poms and handmade pillows. I have yet to do any of these things for my son.

I guess that my time with him is precious. During the school year, I am teaching and he's a preschool. When we're reunited at 5:00ish, I don't want to spend the remainder of the evening creating things. I'd rather curl up with a copy of a Mr. Man book and have him plop in my lap for some reading. Even better, I'd like to spend some time going down the slide with him or sitting behind him as he uses the playground steering to guide our "boat" into dock.

So we've had no homemade pancakes and we rarely have a home cooked dinner these days. There's just no time. I wish I could say that I made my own baby food or that he's never had a banana that's not organic but if I said any of these things I'd be lying.

All of these things mean that I was never a front runner for mother of the year. If I had a chance--even an inkling--at such an award, I really lost it yesterday.

We went out for pizza for dinner yesterday. On the way home, we stopped to get a few movies for the long weekend. By the time we pulled up the drive way and into the garage of our house, it was 7:30 which means bath, brush teeth, bed, book. My husband got out of the car before I ever did. He disarmed the alarm and went inside, leaving me to do some juggling.

Before I got out of the car, I got my iced tea thermos, the movies, and some clothing that needed to go in the house. I went to the back seat and got my son out of the car. He had his shoes off so I picked him up and put him on my hip, gathering his milk cup with the other hand. As I'm talking to him, I shut the door to our car...on his leg!

Oh man did I feel badly about it! He's got this bump and it's all black and blue. He screamed and screamed. At least it's not broken I guess.

Yeah, I'm a bad mommy. That cemented it right there.

Fried

2008-05-23T07:21:00.003-04:00

Lately, I feel as if I'm getting a little crispy around the edges. There are ten--maybe it's nine--days until school is over and I have to say that I think I'm looking forward to it this year more than ever before. The worst part is that I have one or more meeting every day until the end. What's worse is that every meeting I attend determines the school career for one or more child. That's a lot of pressure.

The kids are wild and my sarcasm is really showing it's ugly head. Case in point: a couple of kids came off of the playground with scrapes on their knees. I asked them if they wanted me to put a bandage on it or if I could just cut it off with a pair of giant scissors. Thank goodness the kid knew me well enough to laugh. I've also started giving the kids random names. For instance, the kids come through the lunch line and say their number. As they pass by, I'll say, "Thanks, Charlotte Flowerpot!" or any other crazy thing I can think of. It gets a good laugh.

Serve me up with chips, I'm done!

The Shape of Me and Other Things

2008-05-22T17:09:00.002-04:00

I'm going to be very honest with myself here because some events have happened over the past few days that have left me pondering a question. Has there ever been a point in my life that I didn't like myself? By that I mean not liking all of me. It's more just being upset about a decision I've made or hating a hair style that I had. Have I ever truly hated the person that I was at any given time in my life?

I can honestly say no. I never hated who I was in high school or in my 20's. Even though I feel sorry for the little girl that I was, I am not sorry that I had that experience in life. I think everything is just that--an experience. You live your live and try to make the best decisions. You try not to hurt anyone or yourself and in the end hindsight is 20/20. You take your lessons and move on.

For the bulk of my childhood, I was the picked on girl. I took my lumps and never said a word. Then when I was finished walking around the playground alone, I'd go home, cry, get up the next day and do it again. Never did it cross my mind to stand up and say that I'm not taking it anymore. But I don't hate myself for not making that decision. I think my imagination really grew during those times. That was my escape from the world.

In high school, I did everything that I could to be an individual. I wore striped nylons. I stopped curling my hair before anyone else did. I listened to my own music and I was me, take it or leave it. I wasn't always the happiest camper, but I was damn good at writing poetry.

I think I also grew a heart and became political. Recycling and animal testing were big issues for me and I even arranged a one woman dissection boycott. I'll say that I wasn't always the best friend to have. Not because I gossiped but because I was so used to being independent that sometimes I'd just take off by myself.

While I've heard so many people say, "I don't like who I was in high school," I have to say that that girl, that woman in training, is the crux of who I am today. I like her. I think she was fair, honest and forthright. There have been no big changes in me. I have to say that what you see is what you get. It's always been that way and it always will be.

Now that I'm older and I'm settled, I'll admit that sometimes I'd like to be less cynical. My words can really have an edge to them if I want them to. I need to watch that because I never purposefully set out to hurt people--sometimes it just happens. Does this make me hate myself? Not in the least. I just need to shut my trap a bit more. I also think that I think some pretty messed up things sometimes--more than anyone really knows. I'm not sure that I mind that, I'll just have to make sure that I really stay quiet on those things.

As for the shape of me, I'm holding no grudges and I'm moving forward. Though there is improvement to be had, I like who I am and I like what I'm poised to become.

Happiness is....

2008-05-22T07:05:00.002-04:00

Back when I was a younger and less cynical Magz, I had this boyfriend who was this emotional skater boy. His clothing color palate was limited to black and white and his facial expressions were limited to straight or half grin. I used to grab him by the rim of his salt and sweat covered black cap and say, "Smile!" When he did, his whole face would light up and all of the sudden, you could see right through to his soul. It was amazing and breath taking. I think he felt too vulnerable so tried to hide those moments.

Anyway, Black Skater Boy used to tell me all the time that I was the happiest person that he knew. That was kind of a stretch because at that point in my life, my clothing color palate was limited as well. I just wore a smile to show off my Bonnie Bell lip gloss. Incidentally, seven months later when we broke up, he also told me that I was the biggest whiner in the whole world but I digress.

I guess it made him happy when I smiled because he gave me a book that was a list of 10,001 things that made the author happy. It was this stream of consciousness list that had no rhyme or reason but was very entertaining to read. I used to carry it around with a pencil so that I could underline the things that made me happy as well.

The more I live my life, the more I realize that happiness is different things at different times. At this moment, these things would make me happy:
~cheaper gas
~A glass of drum cloud white mountain tea
~No ants in the kitchen
~ten minutes where I am absolutely alone
~A walk in the woods
~Vegetarian pizza with Japanese Eggplant and goat cheese from California Pizza Kitchen
~A nap with my favorite purple quilt
~To be able to protect all of my "kids" from harm
~Summer Break
~A good book
~The ability to write my own good book
~A drive down Skyline Drive with lunch Sky Lodge and a hike
~The sunshine
~The ability to not worry
~Personal acceptance on one's self

I haven't seen or heard from Black Skater Boy in at least twelve years. If I ever do, maybe I need to pass his book back to him. Who knows, mayb he's already created his own Happy List.

The Quintessential Woman Passes the Torch

2008-05-21T21:32:00.003-04:00

For all of my almost 33 years, I've had a role model; someone to look at as the guide for my walk into womanhood. It wasn't someone famous, exremely wealthy, or well educated in all of the normal meanings of those words. Rather, it was a woman of paradoxes, a woman who was so many things all rolled up into one big ball of almost perfection. I've had the pleasure of trying to emulate my grandmother for almost three decades and now I see an era quickly coming to a dramatic end.

My grandmother loves to feed her birds. She has about five birdfeeders on a postage stamp sized piece of land in a suburb of Detroit. Every morning and every evening she goes out and single handedly fills five birdfeeders up with sunflowers, finch food, and other birdseed mixes. When I was younger, those bird feeders and the bird baths used to attract all kinds of blue jays and robins. Now that suburban Detroit is overrun by pigeons, that's mostly what she gets but she feeds the birds anyway, hoping that one of them might be something pretty to look at. When gram does this, she wears her flannel jacket and a pair of boots and yet, for any other even, even bowling, she dresses to the nines. It's not unusual for her to put on lipstick and a few nice bracelets just to go shopping at the grocery store. Appearances are important to her, but so is praciticality.

Everything that I know about being polite came from gram. I instinctively put my napkin on my lap and I bring my food to me, not me to my food, just as she has instructed me since I was a small girl. I still use my pleases, thank you's, yes ma'am's and no sir's and they all came from her guidance. From the time I was about five, we would have these tea parties that were the real deal. We'd nibble on cookies and sip tea from beautiful china cups. My gram has a whole collection of them that hang in a cabinet in her living room. Still to this day, I love the taste of hot tea and I always leave my pinky finger out just like she taught me. It's a force of habit.

I think that because of all of these lessons on manners and training on how to be a woman, I was surprised to learn that my gram was a pinup girl during World War II. I just found this out a few years ago and it floored me. My upright grandmother had pictures taken for men's enjoyment! I guess it was all in the name of love of country. I've seen the pictures and they're tastefully done. In some, she's wearing cute little dresses. In one she's acting like she's going to throw a snowball. I can't believe how absolutely stunning she is in those pictures. She had this 40's glamour going on and she looked so young, so uninhibited and so...improper!

The best part of this story is that she was sending the pictures to her fiance, my grandfather. They were accompanied by many many letters. I was saddened to hear that when my grandfather returned home, the two of them gathered all of the letters together and burned them ceremoniously as an act of reuniting. I really wish that I could see what they had written back and forth. It would be another piece of her that I'd get to see for the first time.

Gram is 81 now and for so long, she always seemed so young. I finally feel as if her age is catching up with her. She came to visit us last October and my sister made the comment that she was acting like a marshmallow person--all kind of squishy but not really there--not our gram. Still, I tried to cling on. I asked her to tell me about her childhood and her teenage years. I am trying to keep a record of all of this so that it is not lost. We had some good conversations and I clung on to the idea that gram is still gram underneath all the squishiness. I mean, she still dressed like gram and she was still telling me that I needed to pull my shoulders back and not slouch.

Last month, my mom called. She was making the eight hour trip to Michigan the next day. Gram had fallen getting out of bed and had broken her hip. That news tore me up. My independent grandma was now seriously injured. While my mom and dad were in Michigan, I was on the cell phone constantly with my mom. Every time we talked, I fell apart a little more. Horrible news flies at me like stray arrows. The doctors say that she probably will never walk again. My mom and uncle were searching for a rehabilitation center. She was hallucinating and seeing her husband who died more than 40 years ago. She was combative.

In the month since her hip fracture, my gram has been in a rehab learning how to use a walker. My mom went back to Michigan last week because my grandmother was supposed to leave the rehab and she wanted to help her settle in at home. When mom got there, grandma had some sort of stomach virus and wasn't going to be released. My mother stayed for a day and turned around to go home.

I just found out today that my mom is going back tomorrow. Gram is supposed to be released again. Hopefully this really happens because she weighs 85 pounds now and she's refusing to eat. She says she needs to feed her birds.

While I'm clinging to any bit of the memory of the quintessential woman that my grandmother has become in my life, I feel as if it's being ripped from my fingers slowly. I'm searching for a way to honor her, to say to myself--and to what's left of her--that her simple yet extraordinary life had purpose. I've been preparing myself for this for awhile but it hurts in a way that I can't even comprehend to actually realize that an end to her life might be near.

Hopefully one day I can be this sort of grandma to someone else. I am waiting. I am hoping.

The Great White Hunters

2008-05-21T16:52:00.003-04:00

Sunday morning, I was treating myself to a nice hot bath in our over sized tub. I got a big bottle of Burt's Bees Citrus and Ginger body wash for Mother's Day and I was enjoying the smell of the oranges and feeling of the scrubby against my skin. When I got out of the shower, I was a relaxed and de-stressed woman. Let me tell you that doesn't happen very often.

I walked through the closet and into our bedroom, picking out clothing for the day. All of the sudden I heard, "VOOOOOOM!" My first thought was, "okay, my husband is vacuuming. But, the noise ended too soon for anything major to happen. I went back to getting dressed. After slipping on my clothes, it happened again. "VOOM!" Throughout the process of drying my hair and finding some socks, the vacuuming happened about three more times. Now I was curious. Why was there spot vacuuming occurring downstairs?

I came down the stairs and walked into the kitchen to find my son standing in front of the back door with the hose of the our Dyson Monster in his hand. He was intently watching the floor. Then, he'd reach over and turn on the vacuum, suck up something on the floor and immediately turn it back off. Hmmm.

"Hey honey, whatcha doing?" I asked.

"I'm sucking up the ants," was his reply.

I didn't know we had ants.

It seems that I left a potato on the floor of the pantry and the ants that must live in the woods behind our house used their supersonic smelling power to find it. They crawled through what must be a teeny tiny hole by the jamb of the door and tried to find our pantry.

My husband had noticed this great ant mission and had enlisted my son in putting it to an end.

This ant vacuuming went on for the better part of the morning. My son would spot an ant, suck it up, and then look for more ants. It was kind of humorous and he seemed to be enjoying himself. He was like a super powered anteater without ever actually eating the ants.

After about an hour, I said to my husband, "You know, I heard that ants don't like flour and that if you make a line of flour, they won't cross it."

Five minutes later, I see him with my flour jar and a spoon making little white ant barricades in front of the door and around the moldings. If a stranger walked into our house, they would now instantly think that we have a very large drug habit with the mounds of white stuff.

I would like to say that the ant hunt is over but we haven't seen the end yet. Just last night, the vacuum was running at midnight as my husband went to get water and saw one of the little black buggies making it's way accross the floor. I have a feeling that it's going to be like this all summer. There's been too much rain and our dry house makes the perfect escape from the wetness.

I also think that my boys are having too much fun playing exterminator.

The hunt is on.

Quadrapalegic Ken Doll

2008-05-21T13:24:00.002-04:00

I was just having this conversation about children with some of my colleagues. I've been teaching for about ten years and I've noticed that children are growing up faster and faster. They become interested in boys (or girls), make up and clothes faster than I ever remember seeing before. It sure is a lot faster than I ever did.

Just the other day I overheard a third grade girl tell another third grade girl that she was too old to play with Barbies. Too old at eight! Eight is when Barbie playing just gets interesting. Eight is when you have enough imagination to take your Barbies on fabulous adventures.

I have to admit that Barbies weren't really my cup of tea. I had a couple that lived in the bottom of my toybox but I lived in a neighborhood of mostly boys. Instead of having Barbie and Midge play dress up, I got to be Princess Leia swinging through the death star. I was the nurse in the Marine Corps who took care of all of the men in battle (and defended my medical post, I might add.) I didn't play much with dolls.

The big exception to the non doll playing took place at my gram's house. She had a very unique treasure that we were able to pull out on special occasions. Hidden in a closet, far out of reach from little fingers, were two of the first Barbies ever made. They had fabulous cat's eye sunglasses with rinestones, and really cute pedal pushers with little matching sweaters. But, the best accessory that these Barbies had was Ken.

Now I'm not sure what my mom did with Ken when she was younger but the poor guy was in pretty bad shape when my sister and I inherited him as a play toy. His arms and legs were all out of socket and were not able to be fixed. Since my gram was trying to keep all of Ken's body parts in one place, she wouldn't allow us to remove him from the Barbie carrying case.

My sister and I still wanted to involve Ken in our Barbie adventures so this meant that we had to be very creative. We decided that Ken was paralyzed from the neck down. He could not move so he was immobilized in a sealed and strapped box for the remainder of his days. How the paralysis occurred would vary depending on our mood and our story. One time, for instance, Ken received his injuries due to a horrific motorcycle accident in which he took the bike down in order to not injure a group of school children crossing the street. Oh brave Ken!

The thing is that quadrapalegic Ken has shaped my life as an adult in unbelievable ways. I have this imagination that will not stop. Sometimes this is a good thing. Sometimes it isn't. Either way, my game playing--whether it be super nurse saving the injured soldiers, or Barbie, visiting injured Ken in his hermitcally sealed habitat--helped me to create my imagination. It helped me to become a unique thinker and an individual.

I feel sorry for these children who are giving up their games at such and early age. Childhood is about creating, discovering, and honing in on your natural gifts. Time for boys and make up will come later. Eight is the time to really discover your mind and to swim in all of the gifts that your imagination offers. We need to help our children realize this and live in the moment, not in the future.

I think tonight, I'm going to call my mom and see if she knows where Quadrapalegic Ken is. It's time that he and I had another visit.

What's in a Name?

2008-05-20T10:26:00.001-04:00

Names of things are important. They tell you what to expect and how to identify something. They can leave you wanting more or turn you away. They can make things stand out or blend in. Names are important.

So of all the names in the world, why is this Eggplant Teapot. Like almost everything else in my life, this has a story.

For as long as I can remember, I have liked the color purple. I like all shades and all varieties. Once, a friend of mine told me that God must love purple too because so many naturally growing wildflowers are purple. I'd have to agree with that statement.

I have to say that I am not one of those crazy people who only wears purple clothing or lives in a purple house and drives a purple car. I don't think I own one stitch of purple garments unless we are counting underwear, my house is green, and my car is black. But, I do have a favorite purple blanket, and maybe a few other things in that color.

About sixteen years ago, I was engaged to my husband (yes, I was a child bride) and a cousin gave me a teapot shaped like an eggplant. Well, for me, this was the perfect gift. I love purple and I love tea. Little did she know that this sparked an obsession that has followed me all of this time.

I now collect eggplants. I have eggplant pictures, eggplant pitchers, eggplant salt shakers, a hand blown glass eggplant from Murano Italy. If it exists and it is purple and shaped like an eggplant, then I have it. The coolest thing about all of my pieces is that each of them has it's own story. Each of them is part of a menagerie of memories.

Stories and memories are just as important to me as my eggplants--maybe more important. Each one gathers and grows and each one is as precious and unique as the last. You can't look at one without remembering and being pulled in to a special feeling.

This is my newest menagerie--my collection of thoughts. And what better place is there to start than with a name?